


magic in your fingertips

by venvephe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, F/F, M/M, Mutual Pining, Romance, Slow Burn, Teacher-Student Relationship, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 09:56:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 71,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4701800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venvephe/pseuds/venvephe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nearly all of them have left when Merlin ducks close to him, murmuring over the din of the remaining excited students, “Look; it’s your favorite Hufflepuff-Gryffindor do-gooders.”</p><p>Merlin says it with wry affection, and Harry glances over his shoulder to the stragglers still exiting the back of the train. </p><p>He spots Miss Morton right away, long blonde hair pulled up in a ponytail as always, robe pressed and immaculate - she’d grown taller over the summer, but is as graceful as ever as she hops the gap to the platform, joining her waiting friend. She rightens the sleeves of her robe and then smooths her hands across the young man’s shoulders, grinning as she tugs his robes into place, and he bats her hands away to fuss with the knot of his gold-and-black tie.</p><p>Harry’s eyebrows twitch together. “Is that-?” he starts, and pauses abruptly when the pair turns towards them and Harry fully sees the young man’s face. </p><p>It’s <i>Eggsy Unwin.<i></i></i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is it. This is the AU fic I've had in progress for months now, and I'm really excited to finally be sharing it with you! A lot of love has gone into its writing; this has been such a joy to work on so far, and I can only hope that you enjoy reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it.
> 
> But this story would not be anywhere close to what it is today without the tremendous support I've gotten from my dear friend [DivineProjectZero.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DivineProjectZero/pseuds/DivineProjectZero) When I came to her saying, "Hey, I've got this idea for a Harry Potter Hartwin fic..." she was unendingly enthusiastic, supportive, and helpful - without her bouncing ideas around with me, cheerleading and keysmashing when I sent her bits and pieces, this would not have been so much fun to write _or_ nearly as good as it is. Jen, I'm really indebted to you for your kindness and friendship. I'm so excited for you to read this in its published form!
> 
> A note of warning before you keep reading: Eggsy, in this story, is 18. However, he is still a student whereas Harry is a teacher. Without spoiling anything, I can assure you that there will be no underage sexual content and no sexual encounters that are non-con or even dubious consent, but a student-teacher relationship _flirts_ with dubious consent by nature, and if that is something that bothers or triggers you, please avoid this fic. I'd also like to add that this is within the realm of fiction with fictional characters; real life relationships with this dynamic are not something I endorse, especially with one party so young, and if you are of such an age and find yourself in such a situation, do the safe thing and do not pursue a relationship with someone in a position of power in relation to you.
> 
> With that said: these chapters are going to be long, and I'm going to update them on or near the 1st and15th of each month - about bi-weekly. Additionally - Harry Potter, while a longtime love of mine, is not something I'm an expert in. I did my best to keep the universe of this fic in line with the canon, but there are some intentional liberties I took and probably (definitely) some things that are not going to be correct. I hope you can forgive me the errors!
> 
> With all of my heart - enjoy!

There’s something about September the first, Harry thinks.

There’s a contagious excitement in the air as summer enters its last blush before fall; even the moors feel warm and buzzing. It’s the laden promise of a new beginning in the sight of coal-fed smoke, the scent of spilled ink, the polished wood of a new broomstick. The heath and rolling hills echo with the thunder of wheels upon track; as the train chugs closer, the wind carries the sound of cheerful voices laughing and shouting in a merry cacophony.

“You’ve got that look on your face again,” Merlin says, coming to stand by his side.

Harry doesn’t look away from where he’s watching the train pulling into the platform, all red and black and gleaming gilded letters. He’s far past the age of a first year, but the sight of the Hogwarts Express still makes something in his chest swell.

“What look?” he asks. He rocks back on his heels, hands in the pockets of his robes, not startling in the slightest when the train’s whistle blares cheerfully to announce the arrival of this year’s Hogwarts students.

“You didn’t immediately accept, when I offered you the position of Defense professor,” Merlin reminds him genially, though Harry can see from the small, smug smile on the man’s face that this is going to be a rehashing of an old argument, “and yet, every September first, you look as delighted as the students do, to see them returning to the castle.”

“Twice,” Harry corrects him mildly, beginning to smile himself, “It’s been two _September firsts_ , now, including today.”

“You’ll get the same look next year, too,” Merlin raises his eyebrows, nudging him gently in the side with his elbow, and Harry outright grins at that. He doesn’t deny it.

It’s mere seconds after the Hogwarts Express has come to a complete stop that the students positively _burst_ through the carriage doors, hastily knotting their ties last-minute and tripping on each other’s robes, spilling onto the platform en masse. Harry and Merlin have stationed themselves at the end, and the students greet them cheerfully as they pass, bright-eyed and laughing.

“Back for another year, are you, Professor Hart?” one of Harry’s third-year - now fourth-year - students calls as she passes, and Harry quirks an eyebrow.

“I’m not so hard to get rid of,” he says, nodding in acknowledgment, “I hope you had a nice summer!”

It’s - well, _magical_ , how many students flow out of the train and towards the castle. They clump together in groups of friends, as many ties matching as not, and Harry can’t keep the smile off his face as he watches. He helps Merlin direct the first-years to the side for their customary trip across the castle lake, greeting the other professors as well as students that pass them by on their way to the thestral carriages.

Nearly all of them have left when Merlin ducks close to him, murmuring over the din of the remaining excited students, “Look; it’s your favorite Hufflepuff-Gryffindor do-gooders.”

Merlin says it with wry affection, and Harry glances over his shoulder to the stragglers still exiting the back of the train.

He spots Miss Morton right away, long blonde hair pulled up in a ponytail as always, robe pressed and immaculate - she’d grown taller over the summer, but is as graceful as ever as she hops the gap to the platform, joining her waiting friend. She rightens the sleeves of her robe and then smooths her hands across the young man’s shoulders, grinning as she tugs his robes into place, and he bats her hands away to fuss with the knot of his gold-and-black tie.

Harry’s eyebrows twitch together. “Is that-?” he starts, and pauses abruptly when the pair turns towards them and Harry fully sees the young man’s face.

It’s _Eggsy Unwin._

Harry blinks. Eggsy’s grown a lot during the summer holidays - to the point where Harry hadn’t immediately recognized him. His silhouette has changed; he’s taller than he was, broader in the shoulders and chest, the weight of muscle visible as he moves. It’s not a total transformation; Harry can still see the lean young man that had been in his sixth year class, eyes bright and mind sharp, tongue even sharper with wit - and he’s got the same smile, though now it’s framed by a strong jaw. Boys always have their growth spurts a little later - Eggsy’s now half a head above Roxy, whereas she’d been the taller of the two at the end of the term only a few months before. His hair is still blond, burnished gold in the warm September sun, and he grins broadly at Roxy and then up at the looming silhouette of castle. 

Even the cut of Eggsy’s robes highlight how he’s filled out with muscle, the caps of his shoulders and biceps round with them, and Harry swallows.

“What’s wrong with being a do-gooder?” Harry asks after a long beat, since still Merlin’s waiting for a reply, and headmaster snorts and shakes his head, amused.

“Gryffindors,” Merlin mutters, without heat, and scribbles something onto his clipboard’s parchment that disappears as soon as it's written. Harry doesn’t take his eyes off the pair of students approaching them.

Seventh years already - it’s hard to imagine that they’re already there, on the cusp of adulthood. Harry’s only known them since their sixth year, when he began his tenure as Defense Against the Dark Arts professor the year before, but they’d quickly become his favorite students. They were both smart, driven, quick on their feet and fiercely loyal to each other - and together, quite the unintentional troublemakers. “Do-Gooders” certainly also applied - as the trouble they got into was often related to doing right by another student - but there was no denying that mischief seemed to find them far more than it did other Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors. Seeing them reminded Harry of the time he and Merlin had spent together at Hogwarts - and as a Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, respectively, they’d found plenty of trouble in the maze-like halls of the castle.

“Looking good, Eggsy!” Merlin calls out from beside him, and their heads turn in sync towards Harry and Merlin. Both Roxy and Eggsy smile when they see them, Roxy nodding in acknowledgment as they pass and head for the last of the thestral carriages.

“Feeling good, Merlin!” Eggsy says with wide smile, letting Roxy tug him along so they can climb in before the carriage leaves without them.

"Headmaster, Professor Hart," she greets over her shoulder, snorting in amusement at her friend’s antics and herding him towards the carriage, thestral stamping impatiently on the cobblestones. Roxy steps up first and offers her hand to Eggsy, pulling him up into the carriage with no small amount of strength and then closing the door with snap. She smirks at Eggsy as he quickly pulls in the hem of his robe so it won’t get caught in the door, half-in and half-out, and laughs when he pulls a face and says something too faint for them to hear.

Harry huffs, amused, and turns to Merlin - who's eyeing him curiously, eyebrows raised.

"Merlin," Harry sighs.

"I didn't say anything," the headmaster replies, feigning innocence, "unless you were taking my name in vain, just then - in which case I shouldn't need to tell you to knock it off. I'll be hearing enough of that from the students in the coming weeks."

“I’m looking forward to it,” Harry smirks, and Merlin only rolls his eyes and turns back to his clipboard, checking off names as the last of the first years scramble off the train and into the waiting flock of small, robed students, all chattering excitedly and glancing, wide-eyed, at the towers and keeps and parapets of Hogwarts castle.

The thestral snorts into its bit and the carriage jolts and jangles as it pulls away the carriage pulls away, towards the great entrance gate and the castle beyond. Eggsy leans an arm out the window, glancing back at Harry, who is the last to stand on the empty platform next to the quiet, steaming train.

Eggsy grins and winks at him - and, well, that part hasn’t changed, at least. Harry smiles back.

 

\---

 

There’s nothing like stepping into Hogwarts’ Great Hall for the first time of the year - the warm candlelight flickering against the worn stones, the scrape of chairs as students fill their house tables and greet each other with smiles and hugs after a summer spent apart, the aroma of pies and spice in the air and the canopy of glittering stars overhead. It brings a fond smile to Eggsy’s face like nothing else.

Already his mates have spotted him and are motioning for him to join them at the Hufflepuff table; as seventh years they’ve claimed the middle of the table, students of every year starting to fill the seats - and similarly, the Gryffindor girls are waving at Roxy.

“Oi,” Eggsy says, elbowing her gently in the side before they part ways towards their own houses, “Meet up tonight, yeah? After all this?”

“Eggsy,” Roxy doesn’t roll her eyes, but her fond exasperation bleeds into her tone, “you do remember the meaning of the word _prefect_ , and that I still am one - I can’t be gallivanting all over the castle at all hours. I should be setting a good example for the younger students, especially the first years.”

“As prefect, you’re _allowed_ to be all over the castle at all hours,” Eggsy grins, and raises his eyebrows, “and that didn’t stop us last year.”

It’s a familiar argument; Roxy does roll her eyes, then. She sighs, pursing her lips, glancing up at the professor’s table and then at the groundskeeper and the other Gryffindor prefect, assessing.

“I’ve got to help the first years get settled into their rooms in the tower,” she finally says, taking a half-step closer to Eggsy, speaking quietly, “but after that?”

“ _Aces_ ,” Eggsy smirks, raising his hand for a fist-bump, which makes her laugh. “Usual spot?”

Roxy gives him a sharp nod and then takes his shoulders, turning him bodily to face the Hufflepuff table. “Don’t eat all the pasties,” she murmurs in his ear before giving him a gentle shove, sending him - laughing - in its direction just as Merlin stands to quiet them, in preparation of bringing out the Sorting Hat and ushering in the first years for the great banquet to begin.

“Good evening - yes, settle down, you’ll be able to chat more as soon as the opening festivities have been completed,” Headmaster Merlin says, motioning for the students to take their seats at the long tables and waiting as the din of voices quiets to a murmur before continuing. His spectacles reflect the yellow-white glow of the nearby floating candles, and Merlin glances around the room at the body of students as a hush falls, a knowing smile on his lips. Eggsy finds himself smiling back - and a quick glance around the Great Hall reveals that most of his peers are doing the same.

“Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen, to Hogwarts castle - for yet another year of your magical education,” he says, clasping his hands on the gilded podium, “I’ll be making something of a grander speech once our first years have joined us - but I believe their journey across the lake is complete, and Professor Hart will be bringing them in to be sorted momentarily.”

A murmur ripples through the crowd; Professor Ashwick strides to the center of the Great Hall with the Sorting Hat perched on its stool, setting it down where it can be seen by all four houses and the teacher's table. It looks the same as it always has - scuffed, supple leather stitched and creased, unassuming as it sits, silent - though not for long, Eggsy knows. He can almost see the curve of a brow and wide brim of a mouth in the Hat’s folds, now that he knows to look for them. The tide of voices rises again as students lean in to whisper to one another, eyes on the Sorting Hat with reverence and excitement. The ritual of Sorting is as much anticipated by the older students as it is the ones about to be Sorted themselves.

Merlin nods to Ashwick as he returns to his seat amongst the professors, and no sooner has the Charms professor settled his robes around him than a knock on the door sounds through the hall, echoing in the vast room.

Eggsy turns - they all do - and twists in his seat to watch as the heavy door swings inward and Professor Hart peeks through it, waiting for Merlin to gesture for him to enter before leading in a double line of small, nervous first-years. They look around the Great Hall with eyes as wide as saucers, following Professor Hart in an awe-struck daze.

Eggsy cracks a grin; he fondly remembers his first trip to Hogwarts, the delight in the Hogwarts Express and then, later, the mysterious ride in lantern-lit boats across the inky dark of the lake. His own Sorting is fresh in his mind as he watches their newest students peek around each other to get a look at the Hat on the stool, shuffling closer when Professor Hart brings them to a stop not twenty feet from it.

“Think a future Hufflepuff Keeper's among that lot?” Ryan nudges Eggsy in the shoulder, jerking his chin at the throng of first years. “Spot any that are potentially ours?”

Eggsy snorts and shakes his head minutely, watching as Professor Hart dips a hand into the sleeve of his robe and pulls out the scroll with the list of the student’s names. “Ain’t our problem to worry about yet, yeah? They’re first years, besides.”  
  
“Baby Hufflepuffs,” Jamal sighs from across the table, and Eggsy shoots him a smile over his shoulder before turning back to the proceedings. A proper hush has fallen over the Great Hall, now, and Professor Hart takes a step to the side so that the focus is on the Sorting Hat. The first years appear to be collectively holding their breaths, unsure of what is about to happen.  
  
Then the Sorting Hat bursts into song.  
  
Eggsy's eyes flick to Professor Hart, to where he's standing off to the right so that the Sorting Hat can have center stage for its annual performance - and he grins to see that the professor's face is caught somewhere between smiling and wincing. The Hat's in full form, and even Eggsy can admit that though it's a sight he's grown used to, the Sorting Hat's penchant for rhyming has only gotten odder with time. At least this year the Hat doesn’t mention the _shining dome_ of the Headmaster's bald head as it had in years previous. Merlin looks equally relieved when the Sorting Hat finishes its song with a strange, armless bow, and the Great Hall erupts into cheers and applause.

After that, the Sorting proceeds as usual - the houses hooting and clapping when the Sorting Hat shouts out _Ravenclaw_ or _Hufflepuff_ or _Gryffindor_ or _Slytherin_ , welcoming the newest members of their houses with warm enthusiasm. Eggsy nudges Ryan over so a first-year girl can sit on his other side; her honey-gold curls remind him of Daisy. All in all there are twenty-five new Hufflepuffs added to their ranks, bright-eyed and eager to learn _anything_ and _everything_ about their new house.

Merlin stands to make his customary and promised speech when the Sorting is finished; Eggsy, admittedly, tunes him out a little when he finds his eyes strangely drawn back to the form of Professor Hart. He’s sitting with the rest of the professors, now, between Professor Ashwick and Professor Lance, and at first glance he’s paying attention to Merlin’s speech, too. But as he watches, Professor Hart’s eyes wander around the Great Hall - and finally lock on his.  
  
Eggsy swallows. There’s no heat of anger in the professor’s gaze, though he obviously is aware that Eggsy isn’t paying attention either; after a moment, a small smile quirks the corner of his lips, brown eyes twinkling in the candle-light, amused.

He’d be downright lying if he ever said that Professor Hart _isn’t_ his favorite amongst the Hogwarts teaching staff; Eggsy has somewhat of a rapport with Merlin - he tries to stay on the Headmaster’s good side, though the number of times he’s brushed against _trouble_ has only increased over the years - but there’s something about Professor Hart. Maybe it’s that he was an auror, and that’s what Eggsy’s planning on doing after Hogwarts - or maybe it’s the crisp accent that so contrasts Eggsy’s south London drawl. Or maybe it’s the fact that under his robes, Harry Hart wears bespoke suits, wonderfully tailored to his narrow waist and long legs.

Eggsy ducks his head, feeling warmth starting to floor his cheeks, but when he sneaks a look again Professor Hart is still looking at him. The Professor leans forward in his chair, knitting his hands together on top of the table, expression subtly shifting to something sly as he holds Eggsy’s gaze out of the corner of his eye.

And then he _winks._

It’s quick enough to be mistaken for a twitch, if anyone else happens to be watching, but Eggsy knows it’s meant for him. Because Professor Hart is returning the gesture - returning the wink that Eggsy had given him earlier that day, in a rush of impulsive happiness at being back at Hogwarts, at seeing his favorite professor again. Eggsy bites his lip and tries to fight the grin that works its way onto his face with no avail - thankfully, almost everyone else _is_ paying attention to Merlin, and no one notices Eggsy and Professor Hart stealing glances at each other from across the Great Hall.

He looks away from Professor Hart just in time to catch Roxy sparing him a curious look, one eyebrow raised.  
  
"Now that all of that is out of the way," Merlin says, just as Eggsy snaps out of his thoughts and looks in his direction again, "Thank you for your patience - and enjoy the Start-of-Term Feast!"

There's a gasp of delight as Merlin finishes speaking and raises his hands, and the banquet tables in front of them fill with food. The lingering smells of pumpkin and spice, roast chicken and pies that had been floating up from the kitchens are now wafting in full-force, filling the Great Hall with warm, mouth-watering aromas. Eggsy chuckles to see the first years at their table, gaping in surprise and no small amount of excitement at the sudden appearance of the feast itself, and the use of magic that put it there. It's not hard to spot the students who don't come from wizarding families - their mouths are further ajar than the rest.  
  
With that, the students settle into the thrumming happiness of the Feast, of being back at Hogwarts for another year. The seventh-years chat about what they did over the summer, the courses they plan on taking to prepare for their NEWTS and then, after graduation, their careers. Eggsy'd sent sporadic letters to Jamal and Ryan, but letter-writing had never been his strong suit - nor had long flying journeys ever been JB's, if he's being honest - so there is still plenty to catch up on between them.

"Really," Ryan says, tearing into his roasted potatoes, "since Victoria graduated last year, you're going to need to find a new Keeper. She was a good player, gonna be hard to replace with someone new."  
  
"We'll make it work," Eggsy shrugs, unconcerned, as he shovels more of his steak and kidney pie into his mouth and slips some chips into his pocket to give to JB later. "First years'll be flying by October, and we'll have try-outs for Keeper soon enough with the third-years and up - well in time for the opening game in November."

"Long as you've got a plan, Captain," Ryan smirks at him, clapping a hand on his shoulder.  
  
"There are more important things to worry about that Quidditch, mate," Jamal shakes his head in amusement as Ryan feigns an aghast expression of horror at the thought of something _more important than Quidditch_. Eggsy can’t help but smile at their antics, at the easy companionship they’ve built over the years and returns so easily, despite their time spent apart. "At least at the start of term, there is."

"I'll say," Eggsy rolls his eyes, and fights not to look up at the Professor's table.

 

 

As always, it’s a bit of a joyful chaos, bringing the first-years to the Hufflepuff dormitories for the first time. Rajesh and Chloe show them where to find the secret entrance, and how to give the correct number of taps to the correct barrel, and let one of them try it out before they enter the cozy, welcoming common room. The older students hang back, listening to the explanation as they have time and time again, relishing the surprise on the first years’ faces as Rajesh tells them about how the barrels drenching impostors or intruders with vinegar - and then the unrestrained delight and wonder as they take in their common room - their house - for the first time.  
  
The common room is so perfectly Hufflepuff; there’s nowhere else in the castle that Eggsy feels the same at-home, cozy comfort. It’s all plush, patterned chairs and sofas in bright yellow and black, squashy footstools and tasseled pillows in front of the low fireplace. There’s no sun streaming through the round windows, but it still feels warm, earthy, like a burrow in hillside. Plants hang near the windows and clustered in little pots on the sill - some silent and some snoring - and the first years take it all in with rapt awe. Ryan snorts to Eggsy’s left, as one of them almost trips over the corner of a chair, too busy admiring the low ceilings and burnished copper of the lamps to properly watch where he’s going.

Eggsy lets the surging bustle of his house-mates swallow him, hanging back towards the door as the first years trundle off to their rooms through the twin round doorways on either side of the fireplace, led by their prefects respectively; the older students quickly fill the common room, settling into the enjoyably lumpy furniture to keep talking before heading to bed, and that’s when Eggsy makes his exit. He’s got his own plans.

It’s not hard to duck out of the common room, down another tunnel-like hallway to get closer to the kitchens. He and Roxy have been meeting in the kitchens for years, ever since they realized that the house elves were too fond of Eggsy to ever report him - and that once dinner has been served, it’s usually empty enough for them to be left to themselves.  
  
It’s got the added benefit of leftover pudding from the Great Feast, too, and Eggsy knows that Roxy has something of a sweet tooth - even if she won’t admit it.

The Gryffindor prefect knocks gently on the kitchen door in warning before she enters - just in case, as they’d long ago established - arriving only minutes after Eggsy himself had gotten settled with a plate of leftover pasties and two goblets of pumpkin juice. The house elves, it seemed, were as happy as the students to be seeing the school once again filled and full of life. Eggsy smiles around his mouthful, gesturing for her to sit on the short stool across from him and nudging the overflowing plate in her direction.  
  
“Sorry about that,” she says, rolling up her sleeves before selecting a pasty and taking a bite. “Some of the Gryffindor girls wanted to swap beds and, well - they’ve barely just gotten their wands, let alone learned how to do anything with them, so it was up to me and Rose to _Wingardium Leviosa_ their trunks for them.”

“S’ all right,” Eggsy mumbles, taking a gulp of pumpkin juice and swallowing. “Haven’t been here long at all.”

“Good,” Roxy smiles, adjusting the fall of her robe over the back of her stool, brushing crumbs off to the side of the table so she won’t put her elbows in them. “Hufflepuff is fine?”

“Hufflepuff is always fine - we’re not like Slytherin or Gryffindor; we ain’t got house rivalries or house drama to worry about, especially not this early in the year.”

“God, don’t remind me,” Roxy rolls her eyes, exasperated, and Eggsy shoots her a frown.

“Nothing happened, did it?”

“On the first night of term? No, thank Merlin,” Roxy says, and then gently winces - now that they’re back at school it’s time to avoid using the phrase, lest the Headmaster catch them and tell them not to take his name in vain. “Just Charlie being Charlie.”

“You mean, Charlie being a Slytherin arsehole,” Eggsy translates, and Roxy gives him a look that says she wouldn’t have put it like that, but it’s not far off the mark.

“Don’t start anything with him on my accord, Unwin,” she says, using what Eggsy calls her Stern Prefect voice. It’s surprisingly effective - though rarely against him. “I can handle my own.”

“I know you can,” Eggsy replies, taking another great bite of his biscuit, “Don’t mean you should have to put up with him, though.”

Roxy sighs. “Hufflepuffs,” she says, affecting exasperation, though she reaches over to ruffle his hair before taking another biscuit for herself.

“What?” Eggsy cocks an eyebrow, “Got enough of me on the train, did you?”

Roxy wrinkles her nose and nibbles at a biscuit, shaking her head, her long ponytail brushing against her shoulder. “One trip on the Hogwarts Express does not equal the summer full of letters you promised to write and then _didn’t_. Poor form, if you ask me - especially for a Hufflepuff, the House known for loyalty in friendship.”

“Oi, I sent you _some_ letters,” Eggsy protests, “Not my fault JB don’t do well with long journeys. He’s just a wee thing.”

“Your tiny owl is not responsible for _you_ not writing letters in the first place,” Roxy laughs, resting her chin on one of her hands and knocking her knees against Eggsy’s underneath the short table. “He certainly can’t write them for you.”

“Now _that_ would be a magical pet,” Eggsy quirks a grin at her, and Roxy chuckles again.

“Really, everything’s okay?”

“With me? Yeah, just busy this summer, is all,” Eggsy shifts in his seat, rubbing the back of his neck before settling his elbows on the table, willing his hands to stay still. He knows it’s one of his tells - and there’s no reason to burden Roxy with his troubles the first day back at Hogwarts. “Daisy’s getting big, she’s getting harder and harder to keep up with.”

Roxy studies him for a moment, lips pursed; there’s a keenness in her eyes that Eggsy knows means that she’s cottoned on to him, but she’s not going to push - yet. But the moment passes, and she dimples a smile at him at the mention of his younger sister. “She’ll be coming to - Daisy will make a great Gryffindor."

"Hufflepuff," Eggsy snaps back, without heat. But then he smiles broadly, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. It's another one of their old, hashed and rehashed arguments, and falling back into their patterns of conversation makes something warm settle in Eggsy's chest. "C'mon then, Rox. Remind me again what our schedule is tomorrow, and why I should wait until the Quidditch season to punch Charlie's dickhead face in."

"Eggsy," Roxy groans, though there's amusement in the slant of her eyebrows and the pull of a laugh in her lips. "Where do I even start? Which should I address first - your use of your position as a beater to commit violence against another student, your need for reminders about our NEWT level classes - or dare I ask if you speak like that in front of the first years?"

"You're such a prefect," Eggsy shakes his head, and Roxy kicks him gently, laughing. He jerks away from her - more pretending to be offended and hurt than he actually is, which makes Roxy snort, though she can’t stop smiling. There’s a simple joy in just being in each other’s presence again, in picking up their easy friendship where it had left off.

Eggsy leans forward in his stool, resting his crossed arms on the table, and Roxy does the same. They look properly conspiratorial now, Eggsy knows, though the effect is somewhat lessened by the cheerful plate of sweets between them.

"Start by telling me when we have Defense Against the Dark Arts,” Eggsy says, “and we'll go from there."

 

\---

 

The first few days of classes are a bit of a blur - but an enjoyable one, at the least.

Harry does genuinely enjoy teaching, and it's nice to see his colleagues again after the summer holiday - not two days in and Professor Ashwick already seems to be nearing the end of his cool, collected patience for tolerating the suave, easy charisma and confidence of Professor Lance, and there is one morning where Harry thinks he'll be late for his sixth years' class because Professor Hadley won't stop chatting about the Fanged Geraniums she'd started to culture for her fifth years. But still, it feels good to be back in the castle again, good to see the halls lit with torchlight, cheerful voices echoing in the corridors, students spreading out in the courtyard to enjoy the last of September's warmth before the chill of Scotland's fall sets in.

But the hectic nature of reviewing his course plans and learning the names of his first years and giving introductory lectures about the nature of Defense Against the Dark Arts and the books needed for the course reading - well, it means that half the week has passed before Harry even sees his favorite class.

Harry can admit to himself that the seventh-year Defense Against the Dark Arts class is his favorite to teach. By seventh year, the only students taking his course are the ones that have passed their OWLs for it and have a marked interest in the subject - many of whom Harry knows are hopeful prospective curse-breakers, healers, magizoologists, medi-witches and wizards, and members of magical law enforcement - including aurors. His students are bright, driven, ask questions and seek out answers for themselves - they're a good bunch, Harry knows, and bound to excel at anything they put their minds to.

The course itself, by Harry's design, is also more hands-on than any of the first through sixth year Defense classes - which by Harry's standards, makes it all the more fun.

When Wednesday's lunch comes around Harry's looking forward to the rest of the afternoon, the first session of the seventh years' class spanning the double block from lunch until dinner. He gives a perfunctory glance over his notes as he eats, ignoring Lance and Ashwick snipping at each other to his left. Merlin's nowhere in sight to stop their bickering; Harry rather thinks Merlin's interventions could be skewing their bet of when Percival Ashwick and James Lance are going to go from in each other's faces to in each other's pants, but Merlin consistently plays the  _I'm the Headmaster_ card whenever Harry brings it up. (Harry continues to woo Merlin's cat, Circe, into liking him more than Merlin in retribution.)

He's finished his lunch and is wiping away the chalk notes from his previous class with absent-minded flicks of his wand when the first of his seventh years start to trickle in, coming in from the Great Hall in groups of two and three. The class is a mix of all four houses, since there isn’t a big enough need for more than one session; though his back is to the rest of the classroom as he brushes chalk-dust off his robes, Harry can hear the gaggle of Slytherin boys - Charlie, Hugo, Rufus, with Jen sitting behind them - and the cluster of Ravenclaws - Amelia, Eric, Michael. Even with the full class, there aren’t enough students to fill every seat in his classroom, but Harry knows there are still a few missing when he finishes with the blackboards and takes a seat on the desk in the front of the room, rather than behind it, and waits for the rest of them before he begins.

He smiles at seeing their attentive faces, crossing his legs at the ankle as he leans against the desk and waiting patiently. He hadn’t heard her enter, but the dark-haired Slytherin Sophie is in the back of the room near Jen, eyes as sharp as ever - and across the aisle from her the Gryffindors sit together in solidarity.

Well, most of them.

It’s moments before the after-lunch bell rings that Eggsy Unwin and Roxy Morton bluster into the classroom, robes swinging as they come to an abrupt stop at finding the rest of the class there and Harry watching the door, patient and amused. Their eyes are twinkling with mischief already - and Merlin, it’s only the third day of classes, Harry thinks to himself. He’s not sure he wants to know what the pair of them have already gotten up to.

He nods for them to take their seats, and they shuffle into two chairs near the front of the room, too excited to even look sheepish at their close call with tardiness, and Harry stands when they’ve righted themselves and turned their attention towards him.

He puts his hands in his pockets, drawing up to his full height - it’s the first day of class for them, after all; he can’t help a little pomp.

“Welcome to seventh year Defense Against the Dark Arts,” he says, scanning the room to meet them each by eye, ensuring their full attention. “I hope you’re prepared for dark arts, and defending yourself against them.”

"I hope you've all had a nice holiday, because we're going to be diving into coursework right away," Harry continues, "As you're well aware, this is the only session of Defense Against the Dark arts for seventh years - all of your are planning on careers that require knowledge of a wide range of subjects, this one being perhaps the most challenging because it incorporates so many other disciplines of magic."

A few of them nod along to his words, attention unwavering. "Herbology, Transfiguration, Potions - I know many of you have a full schedule of courses, and while the NEWTs seem far in the distance, I can assure you that they'll loom ever-closer, faster than you expect. It's my job to prepare you for the exam, and with your continued cooperation, I'm confident you'll all be doing very well indeed."

Harry shifts, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose before moving to the blackboard, giving a gentle tap to one of the fresh pieces of chalk with his wand. It gives a little shiver and then floats upward, around eye-level and poised to write, as he begins to speak again. "I've made up a list of subjects we're to cover, of course, but I thought it would be worth asking what you'd like to learn - if you have any suggestions."

There's a beat of silence where the Ravenclaws exchange glances with one another, and Harry catches Eggsy out of the corner of his eye, eyebrows raised. But Harry’s always conducted his sixth and seventh year classes with informality - not without respect - so it only takes a moment for one of them to pipe up.

"As in," Amelia says tentatively, "What subjects we'd like to review before the NEWTs? Things we would like more practice on?"

"If you'd like," Harry shrugs gently, "We at least began to cover many of the Defense Against the Dark Arts subjects relevant to the NEWT exam last year; we now have the ability to go more in-depth in certain subjects, as well as engage in more advanced practical work - I can assure you that we'll be doing more interactive spell-work and hands-on experience rather than writing essays and taking tests - though I can't let you off too easy." Harry's mouth twitches into a small smile. "There is a written portion of the Defense NEWT, after all. Suggestions, though?"

From near the back, Jen Pinkstone raises her hand tentatively, biting her lip. Harry motions for her to speak, turning to look over his shoulder as he points his wand at the chalk, ready to write.

"Curse-breaking," Jen says, "Not just resisting them, but - breaking them, on cursed objects as well as people."

"Very good," Harry says, and flicks his wand - the chalk starts to jot in neat cursive, starting a list in flowing, looped handwriting: _Curse-breaking._

"Nonverbal spellwork," Michael adds, gesturing to Harry - as he'd just done exactly that. The chalk squeaks as it writes, adding that to the board as well.

"Wandless magic, then, too," Roxy says, and Harry nods - another smart suggestion.

It only takes a few minutes for them to build a rather thorough list - it contains maybe two-thirds of the subjects Harry had been planning on covering anyways, plus a few items that would be revision topics from years previous. Below _Wandless Magic_ is _Building and Breaking Wards_ , followed by _Stealth and Tracking_ , _Advanced Defense Charms_ \- which had prompted Harry to say _Martial Magic_ as well - _Disguises, Recognizing Dark Objects,_ and _Even More Dangerous Creatures_.

Harry stands back to look at the list, murmuring, “ _Finite incantatem_ ,” and catching the chalk in his palm as it falls out of the air.

“I’ll have to make plans with some of the other professors to cover some of these,” Harry admits, turning to face the class again and pocketing the chalk. “Not to mention you’ll be visiting the Restricted Section probably more than you ever have before to do some of the class readings and research before we tackle some of these more serious topics.”

He resolutely tries not to notice how Roxy and Eggsy glance at each other at the mention of _being in the Restricted section more than ever before_ \- but he can see their matching smirks, and finds himself once again in the position of wondering what in Merlin’s name they’d gotten up to in previous years that he didn’t already know about. At least in his class, they’d be going there with true academic purpose, and not whatever trouble they seemed to find themselves in time and again.

“For today, though,” Harry rolls up the sleeves of his robe and starts to undo the French cuffs of his shirt beneath it, smirking at the curious expression of his students, “let’s spend the afternoon with some friendly warm-up dueling practice, to get right back into the thick of things after the holiday. Although -” he adds, as he finishes pushing his sleeves up his forearms, “let’s endeavor to keep the title of First Hospital Wing Visit of the Year away from my classroom, yes?”

 

\---

 

Something in Eggsy’s stomach curls, warm and waiting, as he watches Professor Hart push back the dark sleeves of his robes to reveal the snow-white shirt beneath, and then start undoing the cuff-links at his wrist. There’s no time to think on it, though - not beyond abstractly admiring the lean muscles of his exposed forearm, and noting the unusual wizard watch on his left wrist - before he’s saying they’ll be _dueling_ that afternoon, and there’s a joyful chaos as everyone jumps up and starts moving the desks to the edges of the classroom so they have plenty of space in the middle. 

The rest of the afternoon passes in an active - but not unpleasant - blur; Professor Hart has them pair off - Eggsy takes a comically wide step to his left to take his place at Roxy’s side, and he swears Professor Hart nearly shakes his head, unsurprised, when he sees him do so - and then it’s casual, warm-up dueling for the rest of the double block.

That isn’t to say that it’s entirely easy, though.

Roxy’s got that mischievous smile on her lips when they turn to each other and take out their wands. They don’t bow to each other - it’s a practice and they’re best friends besides, there’s no need for the formality - but Roxy dips her head to him in a slight not and he returns the gesture, winking.

“Think you can take me, love?” he asks, twirling his wand in his fingers as they back up a few paces, putting space between them before they begin.

“We’ll see if you can even keep up,” Roxy replies, chin tilted up in a challenge, and she flicks her ponytail over her shoulder before settling into a dueling position, leading with her right shoulder and foot, turning counterpoint to Eggsy as she raises her wand. Eggsy mirrors her position, raising his eyebrows as a beat passes, both of them waiting and watching for the other to make the first move.

Roxy doesn’t give him more than a second to think before she’s throwing a Stinging Hex his way, and it’s only because Eggsy’s light on his feet that it misses his left arm by a few inches.

She quirks an eyebrow at him and then, catching movement out of the corner of her eye, dodges a stray spell from one of the other dueling pairs near them - leaving herself open for the slightest moment, and Eggsy jumps at the opportunity, flinging out a quick, " _Expelliarmus_!"

Roxy's able to put up a shield before the red bolt from Eggsy's wand disarms her; her shield sends it, crackling, into one of the nearby stone walls, narrowly missing a window.

"Careful," Eggsy laughs, and she snorts, lunging at him with another spell on her lips.

They dance around each other like that, not venturing beyond anything nastier than a Bat-Bogey hex, enjoying the chance to practice magic once again after the summer holiday and testing their reflexes, their reaction times and spells they know from memory. They circle each other, robes whirling, not staying on a traditional linear dueling path - and avoiding the spells ricocheting around the classroom from the other students as well.

Professor Hart makes a circuit of the room, stopping to watch each pair of students; Eggsy can't help but show off when he nears them, and knows Roxy is silently judging him for it - but he wants to be an auror, wants to impress his favorite professor, start the year off on a good note. He tucks into a roll when a burst of crackling light flies from the tip of Roxy's wand as she shouts, " _Everte Satum_!" and is back on his feet in a flash, sending a Leek Jinx over his shoulder at her.

"Creative," Professor Hart comments, smiling at Eggsy and side-stepping a _Locomotor Mortis_ spell so it diffuses against the classroom wall, moving away without even looking in the direction of the wayward spell - an auror's heightened sense of magical perception, Eggsy admires, before his eyes flick down from the gleam of amusement in the Professor's eyes to his bare forearms, the strong band of leather of his wristwatch, the firm grip he has on his wand even though it isn't raised-

A stinging hex cuts him across the cheek out of nowhere, snapping him out of his thoughts with a bright blossom of pain against his skin, and he gasps in surprise.

Professor Hart's eyes snap to his as Eggsy slaps a hand to his face, feeling the tender sting of pink, raised skin and thin line of blood warm underneath his fingers in an inch-long cut that hurts, fuck, but isn't deep at all. His fingers barely come away red when he glances at them, rubbing at the mark on his cheek with the back of his hand.

Roxy's looking at him, an eyebrow raised - equally surprised that he'd gotten distracted enough for her to land such a simple spell - and she slides her wand into her pocket with pursed lips, approaching him in a few quick strides.

"All right?" she asks, putting a hand on his elbow and waiting for him to move his hand so she can get a proper look at the cut.

"Just a stinging hex," Eggsy shrugs, eyebrows pulled together in a frown, lips twisted as he grimaces, "but bloody fuck, Rox, it does sting - good one."

"Language," Professor Hart says mildly, though there's something like a wry smile on his face, and he gestures at Roxy - she releases Eggsy's arm and shuffles back so he can step forward, leaning in to peer at Eggsy's face. Eggsy tries not to blush under the scrutiny of his keen eyes, focuses instead on the cheerful red-and-gold stripes of Professor Hart’s Gryffindor tie rather than meet his eyes from so close.

"May I?" he asks, finally holding up his wand - and Eggsy does look at him them, nodding tentatively.

"'s fine, really," Eggsy says, brushing off the wince of pain he makes when he tries to give them a confident smile and the cut pulls.

"Even so," Professor Hart reaches slowly, making his intent clear as he takes Eggsy's chin between his forefinger and thumb, tilting his face gently to the side so he can see the mark better in the afternoon sunlight. "I'd really rather you didn't go to the hospital wing - you needn't go for something so small, anyways, but we can't have the Headmaster breathing down my neck about the endangerment of my seventh year students during the first week of classes." He smiles genially at Eggsy, hair lit from behind in a silver-gold halo, light catching on the lenses of his glasses as he peers closer.

Eggsy tries not to breathe.

For a former auror and Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Professor Hart is steady and gentle, hands practiced and warm. He brings his wand up and lets it hover millimeters from the broken skin, murmuring " _Episkey_." There's a ripple of magic as the spell does its work, knitting together the edges of the cut and feathering out into the pink abraided line from the stinging hex, until the skin is clean and whole. Eggsy reaches up to run his fingers across his cheek when Professor Hart pulls away - and the tips of his fingers can't find where the mark was, or any bump or raised mark that would betray where it had been only moments before.

"Thanks," Eggsy grins at Professor Hart - and finds that though his face has been healed, the tender sting still lingers under the skin.

"You're welcome, Mr Unwin," Professor Hart replies, and nods to them before moving on to the next pair of students. Eggsy watches him go, hand lingering on his cheek - he feels the heat rising in his face, and resolutely ignores the curious glances Roxy sends his way.

 

 

"What was that, anyways?" she asks as they walk down the narrow hallway away from the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, making for the Great Hall - an afternoon of practice dueling has made them both quite ravenous and looking forward to dinner.

"What was what?" Eggsy asks, fidgeting with the strap of his bookbag across his shoulder, not meeting her eyes.

Roxy pinches his cheek, and snorts when Eggsy bats her hand away, saying, "Oi, Rox! It still stings a bit!"

But she doesn’t press, doesn’t pry; Eggsy knows that it won’t be forgotten or brushed off, but for a Gryffindor, Roxy’s adopted a rather Slytherin strategy of waiting people out, let whatever it is she’s trying to figure out bubble to the surface without too much prodding. She’s willing to wait - as longs as she thinks it’s the right course of action, of course.

They move on to other subjects at dinner - Defense Against the Dark Arts isn’t their only NEWT-level class, after all, and Eggsy’s glad for it. But he can’t help replay the moment in his mind, when Professor Hart’s eyes - brown, they’re a rich amber-brown - caught the sunlight as he leaned in and his finger brushed against Eggsy’s chin. He fights down a blush at just the though.

He’s really not sure what’s going on, either.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Aces,” Eggsy’s lips quirk upwards, and his eyebrows wiggle as he shoots Harry an amused smirk. “Hands-on things are always my favorite, in your class.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, a huge, huge thank you to everyone that read, left kudos, commented, liked, reblogged, and messaged me about the first chapter of this fic - I am so incredibly happy and humbled that you like it and are excited about it!! As I mentioned in many of my replies, Harry Potter was also one of my earliest fandoms, and I have a lot of positive feelings and memories about the HP universe; I am enjoying tapping into that was I write, and I am positively delighted that it takes some of you back to that place, too!! I think Hogwarts is a home in the hearts of many of us. Your enthusiasm and excitement about this story is making it hard for me to hold back and only publish new chapters every few weeks!!
> 
> This chapter, actually, is being shared a day early because today is Jen's birthday!! Without her, this fic would not exist. She has been continually amazing and supportive, and I can't wait to keep writing for her and for all of you. Happy birthday, Jen!! I would have written you something particularly special had I known further in advance, but I hope 9k of magic in your fingertips will do as a gift!!
> 
> Here's chapter two - as always, enjoy!! <3

“Are Morton and Unwin in your seventh year Defense class?” Percival asks, pulling up the high-backed chair next to Harry. With a teacup to his mouth Harry can’t reply, but he nods after he swallows and replaces the cup on its saucer. The china chirps merrily at him, happy for the gentle treatment.

“Yes, they are,” Harry replies, “Dare I ask why you’re inquiring? They haven’t gotten themselves into any trouble with you, have they? It’s only the second week of classes.”

“Not yet,” Percival gives him a small smile, reaching for the toast and jam, “They just mentioned something about learning advanced defensive charms - I only hoped it would be under your supervision.”

Harry nods, looking heavenward as he half-rolls his eyes and then continues to tuck into his bangers and eggs. “Yes, that will be a part of the seventh year Defense curriculum, since so many of them are hoping to become aurors or mediwitches, Morton and Unwin among them. I'd meant to ask you, actually, which charms you'd be teaching the seventh years that might overlap with Defense Against the Dark Arts, but by the time I thought of it on Friday I had to dash off and make sure my first years didn't beat me to my classroom.” Harry glances at Percival over the tortoise-shell curve of his glasses, quirking his lips wryly. “They're still getting a hang of their wands." 

Percival chuckles and shakes his head, no doubt already familiar with the antics of their newest batch of young students.

"I can make you up a list," he says, chewing his toast before continuing, "though if you’re covering such advanced spellwork, it wouldn’t hurt for them to learn it twice, or at least have the extra practice time.”

“Merlin knows the Defense Against the Dark Arts NEWT _is_ rather a beast,” Harry agrees, and they turn back to their breakfasts in companionable silence.

“Don’t worry about Morton and Unwin,” Percival speaks up a little while later, as Harry’s draining his second cup of tea and polishing off the remains of his own toast. “They’re bright, the two of them, and there was never a dull moment in my Hufflepuff-Gryffindor Charms sessions with them around. I’d have have mentioned it over the weekend, but-”

Percival gestures at the empty seat to Harry’s right with a casual wave of his hand, but Harry grins at seeing the slight grimace of irritation on Percival’s features.

Professor Lance doesn’t let you get a word in edgewise, does he?” Harry chuckles, watching the Charms professor’s reaction with sharp eyes. In front of James Lance, Percival is all cool aloofness, practiced calm and sharp wit; now, he’s more relaxed, dark hair perfectly combed as always, but not nearly so stiff. Since they’re on the subject of James, though, color has started to rise in Percival’s cheeks. Harry smirks, wondering how much of it is only from remembered irritation.

“You’ve no idea,” Percival mutters, and Harry laughs.

 

 

At Percival’s urging a few days later - and with a comprehensive list in hand - Harry begins the seventh years on Essential Advanced Defense Charms, as he writes on the chalkboard as they filter into the classroom from lunch. He adds the first three they’ll be covering in smaller print below that, along with the textbooks they’ll need for further reading.

Once they’re all seated, it’s not hard to fall into the easy pattern the class had established the previous year - minus a few students who hadn’t needed to take seventh year Defense after all, it’s largely the same group of them, and the class dynamic remains much the same. Harry smiles when they answer question after question correct at his gentle probing; they’d all done their homework.

“Right,” Harry finally says, glancing around the group of them, “You’ve got a handle on the theoretical for these spells; let’s see them in action.”

He has them show him the previous defensive charms first, the ones he’d taught them last year - “After all,” he says, as Amelia conjures a very fine _Protego_ charm around herself, “the more advanced spells build off the same principals and even the same words or wand-movements as the basic versions. One cannot build a wall on a poorly-made foundation.”

So they cast bubbles around themselves and each other, letting Jelly-Legs Hexes and Disarming spells bounce around the lofty stone ceilings as they practice their shielding in little groups. It’s good exercise and, Harry thinks not a little smugly to himself, practical magic always seems to wear the students out just enough that they fidget less and listen better when they invariably sit down for the last portion of class.

“With _Protego_ as a foundational spell,” he says, once they’ve taken their seats, “we see several variations, designed for specific practical uses for _Protego_ , with slight differences accounting for different needs. _Protego Maxima,_ _Protego Totalum_ , _Protego Horribilis_ , _Protego Duo_ ,” he lists, counting off on his fingers, “and we’ll go over those next week, after you write me a quick twelve inches on what each _Protego_ does, and how it differs exactly from its sister spells.”

There’s a soft chorus of groans from behind him as he writes the instruction on the board, just for memory’s sake - _twelve inches, on the second week of classes?_ \- and he turns back to them smiling.

“Be glad it’s me assigning your essay for this and not Professor Ashwick,” he says, lips quirked to the side. “He’s even more of a stickler for correct description of wand movements than I am. Now, with _Repello_ as the base charm-”

 

 

“Professor Hart?”

Harry looks up from where he’s repairing the leg of one of the desks; the seventh years had been dismissed, had gathered their things and been off to the Great Hall for dinner without as much as a second look back - all but one, that is.

"Mr Unwin," Harry says, tapping the desk twice with the tip of his wand and watching as the grain of the wood knits itself back together, until where the leg had become detached from the table is seamless and indistinguishable from the rest of the varnished oak. "Is there something I can help you with?"

Eggsy stares at him, tilting his head curiously. "You know you do that a lot, yeah?"

"Do what?" Harry asks, standing to his full height and leaning against the now-repaired desk with one him, crossing his arms but smiling; it's hard not to be amused by the puppyish, eager look on Eggsy's face as he gestures at the wand in Harry's hand, making a vague noise in his throat.

"The wordless magic; is it an auror thing? Ashwick says that words, like wand-movements, are really just a way to channel magic and specific intent, but I couldn't light a candle without telling it to," Eggsy babbles a bit, eyes bright - though there's a moment in which he's realizing that he's babbling, and his mouth snaps shut when he finishes, looking faintly flushed.

"It's just a matter of practice," Harry tells him, striding over to his desk to collect his things and stuff them into his bag. "We won't be getting to nonverbal magic for some time yet - don't sell yourself short until you try. Was there something about today's lesson you actually wanted to ask me?"

Eggsy blinks. "Oh! Yeah, actually - about _Protego_."

“What about it?”

“I remember a bit from last year’s Charms; we talked briefly about it in class - just theory, ways that spells have evolved with variations - so I did some reading up on them, ‘cause I was curious.”

Eggsy pauses, and Harry slides his bag over his shoulder, starting to stroll casually down the center of the classroom, gesturing for Eggsy to join him.

“Each variation changes exactly what kind of shield is created - against physical or magical attacks, within a certain area and for a certain length of time; do the words really matter, then? Could a spell be written to do exactly what one wants even if it don’t exist already?”

“That’s more magical theory than Defense Against the Dark Arts,” Harry raises his eyebrows and looks down at Eggsy, amused. “Ashwick is right that wand-movements and the words involved with a spell are ways for us to channel our magic with a specific goal in mind, and to realize that goal - there’s a lot of speculation as to how close those things are tied, because both wandless and nonverbal magic are possible for strong wizards. As for specific uses of _Protego_ , you’re going to have to wait until next week when you’ve completed the reading and we try out each variation of the spell in practice during class.”

“Aces,” Eggsy’s lips quirk upwards, and his eyebrows wiggle as he shoots Harry an amused smirk. “Hands-on things are always my favorite, in your class.”

Harry coughs, caught by surprise; surely Eggsy hadn’t intended the double-entendre - though by the look on his face, it was absolutely intentional.

“Yes, well,” Harry continues, clearing his throat, “We’ll be spending some time out on the lawns, testing everyone’s ranges for _Protego Totalum_. I'm glad you're looking forward to it."

"Oh," Eggsy says, pausing in the threshold of the Great Hall as he visible scans the room for Miss Morton, and then heads in her direction, calling out over his shoulder, "I certainly am."

 

 

"What's with you?" Merlin asks without preamble as Harry takes his seat at the table at the head of the Great Hall, letting his bag of books fall off his shoulder with a thud and sighing as he settles in his chair. He resolutely does not look at Eggsy Unwin.

"You're a wee bit-" the Headmaster makes a circular gestures in the direction of Harry's face with a hand still holding a hunk of bread. "- pink, in the face. Your seventh years giving you a run for you money already?"

"That’s putting it mildly," Harry mutters, and Merlin laughs.

 

\---

 

In Charms on Friday they start learning about apply advanced charms to objects, including charms that react to specific people, or to specific intents - and Ashwick’s discussion reminds Eggsy so much about the shield charms in Defense Against the Dark Arts that during his free period before lunch, he makes a trip to the Library to read up on them.

“I don’t know what bee’s gotten into your bonnet,” Roxy says with a sigh across from him, nudging him with the toe of her shoe under the table, “The Defense reading and the twelve inches we need to write aren’t due until next Wednesday; it’s only Friday, still.”

“Don’t hurt to read ahead,” Eggsy mumbles quietly, nose down in thick copy of _Ducke & Couver’s Guide to Essential Sheildes,_ which purrs every time he flips a page - it must’ve been lonely over the summer, with no one reading it or dusting off its pages.

Roxy snorts, rolling her eyes but returning to skimming over her Transfiguration homework. “You aren’t normally this studious, that’s all.”

“New year,” Eggsy shrugs, aiming for nonchalance, “Got NEWTs to study for, after all. Ain’t nothing wrong with getting a head start.”

He can feel Roxy’s eyes pinning him, practically boring holes in him with the intensity of it as she studies him. Bloody Gryffindors - once they’ve gotten the scent of something, they don’t let go; apparently Roxy’s finally decided to start prodding him about this. Her stare doesn’t let up; he can see her shift out of the corner of his eye, crossing her arms and leaning forward on the table. Her eyes are nearly the same brown-gold as the stripe on her tie in the sunlight pouring through the library windows.

“Eggsy,” she says quietly, and he folds, slumping into the open pages of his book.

“I’m just - it’s interesting, Rox! I want to be an auror, and finally we’re learning shit in Defense that is actually gonna be useful! So - so what if I want to be good at it in class?”

Roxy narrows her eyes keenly, setting her chin in one hand as Eggsy sits back in his chair. He fidgets, not reading the words on the page but refusing to meet her eyes.

She’s too good at this for her own good.

“And that has to do with the subject, not the professor?” she ask slowly, and Eggsy groans, covering his face in his hands.

“Roxy!” he whines, and she kicks him again in the shins, hushing him with a hiss as the librarian walks by with an armful of books, giving them a suspicious side-eye as she passes.

“Tell me you don’t have a crush on Professor Hart,” she whispers, leaning closer.

“No!” Eggsy drags his hands through his hair and looks at her properly - at the earnest, concerned look on her face, and then he winces. “...No?”

“That shouldn’t sound like a question!” Roxy mutters, and shakes her head. “I didn’t think you could have worse taste than Charlie last year, but-”

“Oi!” Eggsy sits up, pointing at her as his face heats and his ears turn red, “That was nothing! God, you give a bloke a handjob _one time_ -”

There’s a strange, muffled sound that’s somewhere between a startled laugh and a cough and they freeze; a moment later, two third years shuffle out of the stack behind Roxy and make a beeline for the librarian’s desk, studiously _not_ looking at either of them.

“...It’s just a little crush,” Eggsy mutters after a beat, frowning. He resists the urge to kick his feet up on the library table and settles for slouching moodily in his chair and tugging at his gold-black tie. “‘S nothing, really. He’s just - brilliant, you know? An auror, like I’m gonna be, and I admire - and so what if I want to impress him?”

“If that’s all it is,” Roxy says, but her eyes are still narrowed shrewdly, hesitant in accepting that Eggsy’s admiration might be purely that - _professional_ admiration.

They return to their tasks, Eggsy pouring over the chapter on _Protego_ variations - and, interestingly, how they’ve been applied to physical shields through the Middle Ages - and Roxy to her homework. It’s pleasant, and relaxed; the library isn’t too full, in the middle of the day when most of the younger students still have full blocks of classes, and it’s warm and familiar to be studying together again. They share the companionable silence, filled by the gentle fluttering of pages and the scratch of Roxy’s quill against parchment as she makes edits to her homework. 

Eggsy’s mouth quirks into an unwitting smile as a thought crosses his mind, and he turns a page casually, trying to tamp down on his grin.

“Although,” he says, feigning thoughtfulness, and Roxy looks up from her parchment. “It help that he’s got legs for bloody _days_.”

Roxy smacks him with the wound scroll of parchment at her side, and Eggsy laughs until the bell rings for lunch.

 

 

Care of Magical Creatures lets out a little on the early side on Monday before lunch - it had been a lecture session in the west wing of the castle, nothing hands-on down by the groundskeeper’s cottage - so Eggsy trots across the middle courtyard to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classrooms, unable to sate his curiosity about shielding spells and, admittedly, hoping to catch Professor Hart before class again on Wednesday.

The bell rings just as he approaches the classroom Professor Hart’s using for his lecture, and a stream of cheerful third year Ravenclaws exit the classroom in a rush, chattering excitedly amongst themselves, each carrying an impressively thick book stamped with _The Essential Defense Against the Dark Arts II, Revised and Revisited_ in curling, gilded letters. Eggsy manages to slip into the emptying classroom as the stragglers leave and make their way towards the Great Hall for lunch.

Professor Hart is packing his bag, attempting to shove _The Essential Defense_ in with what looks like an unreasonably large number of books, and as he draws closer Eggsy can’t help but chuckle.

The Professor looks over his shoulder at the sound, and rolls his eyes when he catches Eggsy watching him. He pulls his wand out of his pocket and taps three of the books in succession, and with a quick flick of his wand and a muttered “ _Diminuendo_ ,” they shiver and then shrink. Professor Hart waits until they settle, now only as large as a deck of cards each, and easily slides the last book into his bag alongside them.

“Mr Unwin,” he says, stuffing his wand away and closing the clasps on his bag, hoisting it over his shoulder in one smooth movement. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Surely you’re not here to watch me struggle with books.” 

“No,” Eggsy grins, amused, and leans back against one of the desk, “though I ain’t saying it weren’t amusing.”

Professor Hart sighs, gesturing with a jerk of his head for Eggsy to follow him out of the classroom. “Ravenclaws,” he says with a cluck of his tongue, wry amusement in his tone. “Always a clever bunch - really, they’re quite bright - but they like having all the answers. I had to do some additional reading because of their questions about salamanders, before I bring some into class next week.”

“I think we learned _Aqua Eructo_ in fourth year,” Eggsy replies as they stroll towards the courtyard, following the flow of students in the direction of the Great Hall, “but perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to teach them that before having the salamanders live in class.”

“Indeed,” Professor Hart raises his eyebrows, a smile crinkling at the edges of his eyes as he glances down at Eggsy.

“But speaking of research,” Eggsy continues, reaching up to scratch at the line of his jaw and trying to quell the warmth attempting to cover his cheeks, “read the bit in _Ducke & Couver_ about shield variations, including Protego. D’you have a minute to talk?”

Professor Hart doesn’t take his eyes off of him as he talks, collected and calm as always, but as soon as Eggsy’s finished he looks away and sighs, and Eggsy’s stomach drops. He even wriggles his wrist away from his hand to get a glance at his watch - why, Eggsy’s not certain, because the device doesn’t have a normal watch face or hands, by any means - and he doesn’t know what Professor Hart sees there, but it doesn’t seem to be good.

“I do appreciate that you’ve taken an interest in the subject, Mr Unwin,” Harry starts, and Eggsy can’t help the twitch of his lips into a small frown at the impending let-down, “but I’m afraid that a morning of Slytherins and Ravenclaws back-to-back has me rather ravenous for lunch.”

Eggsy looks up in surprise; Professor Hart’s looking at him, softly amused. “I remember a certain Hufflepuff and Gryffindor similarly tiring me in my classes,” he continues with a smile.

“What, last week?” Eggsy quips, cracking a smile, and Professor Hart laughs.

“Quite. I’m afraid I’ve got two full classes in the afternoon, so I won’t be around if you stop by - but you are welcome to come by my office any time you can catch me there.”

Eggsy grins back at him, nodding - he would really like to ask about the shield charms outside of class, which isn’t until Wednesday afternoon, besides. “Catch you?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Well,” Professor Hart smirks, leaning towards him conspiratorially, looking at him over the rims of his glasses, “I can’t make it too easy for Headmaster Merlin to find me, can I?”

Eggsy's laugh echoes in the stone hallway, and Professor Hart's eyes twinkle as they turn, side-by-side, into the Great Hall.

 

 

Eggsy's a little torn about when to approach Professor Hart with his questions - on the one hand, waiting any more than a day and it'll be Wednesday already, and he'll have Defense Against the Dark Arts at that point anyways - but on the other, it's only yesterday that Professor Hart had invited him to come by. He doesn't want to seem too eager.

Okay, so, he's quite eager. Roxy's not there to give him a look as he's the first out of the door when the bell rings in Potions, but there's a twinge of disapproval wearing her face in his mind's eye. He brushes it away, trying not to hear the thud of his heart in his chest as he half-jogs in the direction of Professor Hart's office. He really wouldn't want his questions answered in front of the whole class, anyways.

After a quick walk-around of the empty classrooms at the base of the tower, Eggsy comes to a stop a few feet from the heavy wooden door of the Professor's office, hovering uncertainly.

He glances left and right - it's mid-afternoon, sunlight beginning to slant sideways and golden in the courtyard just outside - and the only students are the stragglers late for their next classes or those with free blocks heading back to their common rooms or the library.

The door itself is cracked; there's a little gold plaque with Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts stamped into it in impressive, Gothic letters; underneath it is a small plaque, with the initials _H. H_. Eggsy thinks they're initials, at least. There's a faint rustle of paper from inside the room followed by the sound of a cleared throat, and Eggsy makes up his mind with a nod to himself. Right. It's Professor Hart; there's really no need to be nervous.

He knocks on the door, aiming for somewhere between gentle and confident but not tentative, and the force of his knuckles is just enough to cause the door to swing inward a fraction, creaking. In the sliver of room it reveals Professor Hart looks up from the messy stack of scrolls on his desk, one unspooled and spread before him, blue ink starting to drip from the tip of his quill as he peers out the crack in the door.

"Hello?" Professor Hart calls, unaware of the splatter of ink against parchment as he gestures at the door, "Please, come in."

Eggsy nudges the door the rest of the way open, returning the smile Professor Hart flashes him when he recognizes his visitor.

"Mr Unwin," he says in greeting, looking down so he can replace the quill in its inkwell, muttering "Oh, shit," when he notices the cobalt drips on one unfortunate student's essay. He waves Eggsy into the chair across from his desk as he sets the quill in the well and sighs at the state of his stained fingers, cleaning them with the a handkerchief from an inside pocket and then using his wand to suck the worst of the ink-drips out of the parchment.

"Language," Eggsy smirks at the look Professor Hart shoots him as he rolls up the scroll of parchment and sets it back into the larger of the two piles of essays on his desk, leaving him enough room to set his clasped hands on the polished wood and lean forward, giving Eggsy his full attention.

"Don't tell M- the Headmaster," Professor Hart says, "though I daresay I've heard you say worse in class, and I could take points for it."

"Haven't this year, though," Eggsy shrugs his bag off his shoulder and settles it at his feet, mouth quirking up at one corner. "Well - much."

Professor Hart doesn't shake his head, but his eyes are bright and amused when Eggsy settles back into the chair - which is surprisingly comfortable, for being one in a Professor's office. The menacing wing-backs in the Headmaster’s office are _just_ on the side of too stiff and a little musty; they’re far more intimidating than the faded, doughy-cushioned seat Eggsy’s sitting in now, though he’s seen the inside of the Headmaster’s office far more often.

"I assume you've come by to talk about shielding?" Professor Hart asks - not accusing but curious, with his head tilted slightly as he watches Eggsy pull at a thread at the hem of his robe. He can't help but be a little nervous under the Professor's gaze; Professor Hart is an auror and a smart man, after all - knows more about Dark Arts than there probably is up in the library. Eggsy's just got a knack for spellwork and has read a few books - and has seven years of classes and troublemaking under his belt.

"Yeah," he says, nodding, "Read about the _Protego_ variations, how they differ and the various magical applications for using them - though it mostly talked about dueling and combat uses for shield spells."

"Martial Magic," Professor Hart says, shifting forward to lean in on his elbows, "Yes, that would be correct, by and large - _Protego_ and its variants are mostly used in situations where there is a risk of a magical altercation - whether it be a duel with another wizard or a creature - or perhaps magically-induced weather. Most _Protego_ spells protect against magic, at least - though several protect against physical damage as well."

Eggsy purses his lips, thinking through the information and Professor Hart waits, patient, as he finds his next question. "So it's not - for a long-term use. 'S cast in time when protection is needed."

" _Protego_ specifically, yes," he replies, and Eggsy watches with growing nervousness as his eyes narrow. "It requires enough of the caster's energy that it can't be sustained over a longer period - though I can't imagine a student would have much need of a long-term protection spell - not here at Hogwarts, at least. There's little one needs protecting from, here, and spelling brooms against bludgers and the like is against Quidditch rules - not to mention Madame Trinia would suss it out and give you detention before a match, anyways."

"I'm a beater - the bludgers are really not what I'm afraid of," Eggsy snorts, unable to help the quirk of his lips in amusement at the idea - a beater afraid of bludgers, really?

Professor Hart studies him a moment longer, waits for Eggsy to come out with it, and sighs when Eggsy doesn't respond. "Then what _are_ you afraid of?" he probes, eyes sharp and searching behind his glasses - not threatening, but determined to get to the truth. Eggsy presses his lips together, equally determined not to let him in. It was his problem to fix and solve; he just needed the tools, and then he'd make it right.

"You said something about what you'd learned in Charms recently?" Professor Hart says quietly, and Eggsy glances to the side, refusing to meet his eyes.

"Spelling objects," Eggsy mutters, "Advanced charms, things like putting spells on objects that react to specific people, specific intent."

"And it made you think of the shielding charms we've been working on," the Professor surmises, unlinking his hands to rub one hand along the line of his jaw, thinking. "You've got the right line of thinking - it is possible to put a shielding charm on an object as a long-term shielding solution, but _Protego_ wouldn't be the right spell. We're learning it in Defense because it's perfect for that - defense against the dark arts in a rather literal sense - but charming an object with a shielding spell is far more complex and powerful magic."

Eggsy glances over at Professor Hart and finds his eyes cutting into him, couched by the soft, concerned expression on his face - and his resolve buckles.

"It's not magic I'd trust with a seventh year student," Professor Hart continues softly, "Even if you'd managed to make such an item correctly - it's magic so intricate that I wouldn't feel safe giving it to another to wear. Who - what would you need such a thing for, Eggsy?"

The silence stretches between them again, and Eggsy sighs, shifting in his chair, finally giving in to the weight of the open worry in Professor Hart's warm eyes. "My sister," he finally mutters, dragging his gaze away from a spot of soot near the fireplace and meeting Professor Hart's gaze. The Professor blinks in surprise, sitting straighter in his chair and clearing his throat, taken off-guard.

"Your sister?" he asks.

Eggsy nods, a scowl settling onto his face. "'S my stepdad," he explains, "He's a Muggle - Mum's got some magic in her, but she never gone to Hogwarts. When I'm here, at school, there's no one to protect them - to protect Daisy - from him."

"How old is she?" Professor Hart asks, the heartbreaking look of concern on his face only amplified by the tenderness in his voice.

"Three," Eggsy grunts, crossing his arms self-consciously, "I don't think he'd hurt her, she's still so small, but - don't want to risk it if there's a way I can protect her while I'm away."

"Hence the shield charm on something you can leave with her," the Professor muses, his mind visibly working as he thinks through what Eggsy's just told him.

"Yeah, hence the shield charm." Eggsy can't help the bitterness in his voice - now that Professor Hart knows his plan, there's no way he's going to be able to go through with it. He's done hard magic - magic well beyond the skill level of his year that was, if he's being honest, rather reckless - but this is a different matter. Difficult magic is one thing, difficult magic that could potentially hurt his baby sister is another - even if he's capable of completing such a charm, he refuses to put her at any more risk. Eggsy can't help but feel that it's one step forward, two steps back - the magic is possible, the magic _exists_ , but there's still no way to protect Daisy while he's at Hogwarts, and it makes his gut clench with frustration.

"I'm afraid I can't teach you how to put such a powerful charm on an object, nor can I advise you to try it out because of the potential consequences," Professor Hart says, and Eggsy grimaces - he expected as much.

"I just thought -" he sighs, shaking his head, "It don't matter now, but magic is always stronger when there's a familial bond - that's why I wanted to be the one to do it rather than buy something."

"That is true," Professor Hart says slowly, and between one moment and the next his face shifts, the clever brightness returning to his eyes that had been banished at Eggsy's words about his sister, and his eyebrows draw together as he thinks. "However..."

Eggsy looks up, surprise causing his mouth to go slack and he blinks. He wasn't expecting there to be a _however._ "Yeah?"

"I can't promise anything," Professor Hart says, but the growing look of determination on his face speaks otherwise, "but - I have a thought. I'll try to let you know within the week if it comes to fruition."

"A week?" Eggsy raises his eyebrows, mind whirling.

"Hopefully at the most, it shouldn't take too long to get together-" he stands, stepping away to the bookshelf on the other side of the office, skimming the titles with his head tilted, fingers running down the worn spines as he thinks aloud, "-and I'll need to talk to Percival, or Merlin-"

"Professor Hart," Eggsy complains over the Professor’s muttering, rising to stand as well - and after a moment Professor Hart does look at him, a faint smile on his lips.

"I don't want to get your hopes up, so I'm going to be terribly frustrating and not tell you what I’m thinking," Professor Hart smiles wryly, "You'll just have to suffer through waiting a week - thankfully, I know a professor who is assigning a rather large reading tomorrow for homework, which should keep you busy until then."

Eggsy whines another complaint and badgers Professor Hart for anything else he's willing to spill - which is nothing - and he gets shooed out of the office soon after, the door thunking closed behind him as Professor Hart piles a stack of books on his desk, the essays he'd been reading when Eggsy entered shoved to the side and forgotten.

It’s with a full mind - and more questions than he started with - that Eggsy returns to the Hufflepuff dormitory, dropping his bag at the foot of his bed and flopping into it, rolling to lie on his back and stare at the ceiling. It’s really not every day that something like this happens - that someone goes so out of their way for him - and he doesn’t even know what Professor Hart’s got up his sleeve. He sighs, settling more comfortably on the sun-warmed gold-and-black duvet; the rest of his afternoon is free, with nothing to take his mind off what’s just occurred or the readings he’d found about shields and charms and protective tokens and - and Daisy, who he hasn’t seen in nearly a month now.

Eggsy squeezes his hands into fists and then springs out of bed, determined at least to work off some of his nervous energy - even if the Flying classes are outside in the pleasant September weather, the pitch should be free for him to use.

It’s not until Eggsy’s pushing through the Great Hall door and outside, walking towards the Quidditch pitch, when he remembers that Professor Hart had called him _Eggsy_ rather than _Mr Unwin_. He nearly trips over his own feet, blushing at himself for remembering, and kicks extra hard on the grass when he launches into the air.

 

 

A week later, JB comes tumbling into the Great Hall at breakfast and places a little paper-wrapped parcel in front of him - nearly in his oatmeal, to Roxy's amusement - and Eggsy opens it with bated breath as JB nibbles at a piece of blackened toast.

There's a necklace inside, a symbol inlaid in a circle, all polished gold and baby pink - perfect for a little girl. There's a messily scrawled note next to it, in slanted cursive that Eggsy thinks is all too familiar. _Wear this for a week,_ the note reads, and _then give it to her._

Eggsy unsnaps the clasp and has Roxy help him settle it around his neck, tucking it underneath the collar of his shirt after he admires the look of it, the gleaming gold and delicate chain. It quickly warms to his skin - unnaturally, magically warm.

He looks up at the professor's table, to where Professor Hart isn't looking at him, but is rather smugly sipping his tea from behind the delicate folds of The Daily Prophet.

The note isn't signed.

 

\---

 

Chester King is in Merlin’s office when Harry drops by on Friday evening for their customary weekly glass of scotch.

"Oh," Harry says, pausing in the threshold of the doorway for a beat before he continues into the Headmaster's office, "it's you." He winds his way around a precarious stack of books and what looks to be a small cauldron, full to the brim and nearly tipping its contents - pendants, rings, amulets set on thick chains and strings of beads - onto the floor. Merlin, while a brilliant wizard in his own right, enjoys tinkering and does _not_ enjoy that his position as Headmaster keeps him too busy to keep tidy. Harry doesn't mention the thick, bookmarked spellbook he has to move to take a chair in front of Merlin's desk - opposite the one Chester's occupying, as much as a ghost can occupy a chair.

"' _Oh, it's you?_ '" Chester parrots back at him, raising his eyebrows over the thick horn-rims of his glasses, grumbling. "Is that any way to greet a Headmaster of this fine school? I tell you-"

"You tell us all the time," Merlin mutters, not looking up at either of his guests from the massive scroll unfurled in his lap, "and it's _former Headmaster_ , Chester; only I would be so unlucky to be the Headmaster haunted not only by the portraits of his predecessors, but the ghost of one, as well."

There's a chorus of complaints from around the room as the portraits - the ones that are awake and listening, at least - take issue with Merlin's words.

"Your name is Merlin, after all," Harry grins, parting the front of his robe so he can loosen the knot of his tie and settle more comfortably into his chair, crossing his long legs.

Chester huffs, quite put-upon for someone you could see through, and he turns back to Merlin with a frown. "As I was saying, it's completely inappropriate for-"

"Is he lecturing you on the poor direction the school has taken and what a shame it is you're leading it into the ground - again?" Harry interrupts, to Chester's squawked protests.

"It's Friday," Merlin grimaces, and Harry chuckles.

"I'm serious! Let alone the _mudbloods_ as students, having one as a teacher - and at that, a-"

Merlin's wand is out of an empty mug and into his hand in a flash, and there's a burst of light and a muffled bang as he shoots a spell straight through Chester. It doesn't do anything besides startle the ghost into seething silence, of course, but it does the trick to shut him up. The Headmaster looks up from his scroll, putting his hands on the desk and leaning forward with a sharp frown on his hawk-like features.

"Chester King, despite your name you were only a Headmaster - and you've been dead long enough that I really don't care to hear your backwards, old-fashioned dribble about my staff or students," Merlin glares, "If you want to bother someone with your ranting, go find the Bloody Baron or the Fat Friar - lord knows you can't talk either of them to death, at least."

Chester's face is a sneer of rage but he departs in a blur, kicking up papers in his wake as he floats down the spiral staircase and off into another part of the castle.

"And here I thought I might have to convince you of the scotch," Harry says wryly, meeting Merlin's gaze as he rolls his eyes at the ghost's huffy departure. Merlin shakes his head as he winds up the scroll carefully - it's the length of his arm with text so dense Harry can't make out the words - and ties the cords to keep it wrapped, standing from his desk to tuck it back into one of the many impressive bookshelves.

"As long as it's none of the shite Lance brews in the unused Potions storage room," Merlin snorts, sitting heavily back at his desk. He leans forward on his elbows, rubbing his temples with firm, circular motions, and Harry grins as he sets the bottle and two tumblers between them on Merlin's desk.

"Heavens, no," Harry laughs, and pours them each a finger. He nudges Merlin's glass closer to him and picks up his own to give a small toast before he sips. "I don't think James knows you know about that, though."

"I'm surprised none of the students have caught on yet, from how often he and Percival talk about it," Merlin replies, wincing at the pleasant sting of the scotch, "They're not very good about volume control, around each other."

"Don't I know it, sitting between them at most meals," Harry shakes his head. Their arguing was getting closer and closer to flirting with every day, and as amusing as it was to watch his co-workers dance around each other, Harry's also quite ready for them to be done with it and let him read the Prophet each morning in peace and quiet. Merlin grunts, rolling his eyes in agreement.

"I wanted to thank you, though," Harry continues, "The combination of charm spells you suggested worked perfectly - I wouldn't have thought about the color and shape of the metal working as a conduit between the two, but I'm rather pleased with the result."

"And you gave it to Eggsy?" Merlin looks up from his glass, studying Harry.

"Yes, though I didn't give it to him myself nor did I sign the note I sent along with it - just instructions on the medal's use."

The Headmaster nods, and half-shrugs as he sips his scotch again. "That's all we can do for now, then - more than we should have done, really." He looks pointedly at Harry over the rim of his glass as he drains the scotch, and sighs as he sets the tumbler back on his desk with a heavy thunk. He looks suddenly much more tired, and Harry can't help but sigh along with him.

“I still feel it was the right thing to do - his sister is only three,” Harry presses his lips into a thin line, “Regardless of whether or not it falls under school rules, I shan’t stand by and knowingly do nothing when a child is at risk.”

“Gryffindors,” Merlin grumbles, though he nods again. “But speaking of students - are you going into Hogsmeade tomorrow?”

“It’s the first Hogsmeade weekend of the year,” Harry replies, “It’s rather tradition to go, besides keeping half an eye on the third years - it’s their first trip, after all.”

Merlin chuckles, motioning for Harry to pass him the bottle so he can refill his glass. “Good; I won’t be able to go in with you, but I’ll meet you at the Three Broomsticks for a pint. I’ll need one after my meeting with the Board.”

“Is that tomorrow already?” Harry raises his eyebrows, “and here you are, drinking scotch the night before.”

“I’m going to need it even more afterward,” Merlin says glumly, raising his glass, “Let me bitch about it a bit, will you? Your first year students are _nothing_ compared to this lot.”

 

 

The walk down to the village the next morning is a pleasant one, though brisk; with the end of September at hand, a chill nips at the heels of each night, getting progressively cooler as summer fades into autumn. Harry spots a faint glaze of hoarfrost on the chimney of the grounds-keeper’s cottage,wisps of steam rise from the brick column, and there are several dew-beaded spider’s webs amongst the drying leaves as Harry rounds a corner and the thatched roofs of the village come into view.

He makes a stop into the Hogsmeade Post Office - not to post anything, but to pick up some of the owl treats Mr Pickle particularly likes as reward for his journeys, saying hello to the villagers he knows and the other Hogwarts staff that are out of the castle for the day while the weather is nice and the classes aren’t too taxing. He isn’t meeting Merlin at the Three Broomsticks until closer to noon, when they can partake in a nice pub lunch as well as a pint, so he strolls the quaint village and gives directions to the third years that ask him how to get to Honeyduke’s or Zonko’s Joke Shop.

Harry has half a mind to go into the Joke Shop himself - if for no other reason than to peruse the shelves and possibly give Percival ideas on his situation with James, though perhaps that would count as interference - and he half-turns to make his way towards the door and walks _straight into someone_.

 

He doesn’t fall - he’s a good head taller than whoever he walked into, and manages to keep his balance - and is miraculously able to catch the other person around the waist before he falls, too.

Because he didn’t notice at first, in the midst of catching his breath and catching _him_ , that the person he collided with is Eggsy Unwin.

“Professor!” Eggsy blurts, bright-eyed and amused despite the fact that Harry had just nearly knocked him to the pavement on his arse. He’s flushed from the cool September wind, pink-cheeked and clearly enjoying the chance to be out and about in Hogsmeade for the day.

“E- Mr Unwin,” Harry stutters, blinking down at him. It’s a bit of a surprise to see Eggsy like this - though when Harry thinks about it, of course Eggsy wouldn’t be dressed in his school uniform on a Hogsmeade trip. But only seeing Eggsy in his Hogwarts robes and Hufflepuff tie makes his outfit stand out all the more in Harry’s mind: jeans and trainers, a sweatshirt over a striped polo and a cap tilted jauntily on his head. It suits him, somehow, just as much as proper wizard robes do.

“I apologize,” he says, when he can find the words to do so, “I should be more careful of where I’m going.”

“S’all right, Professor,” Eggsy grins, and looks pointedly down to where Harry’s arm is still firmly around his waist. Harry loosens his grip immediately, pulling away and hiding his mild embarrassment by adjusting his red-and-yellow scarf. “Didn’t expect to see you in Hogsmeade.”

“We professors _are_ let out of the castle once in a while,” Harry quips, and Eggsy breaks out into another one of his wide smiles as he tugs at the cuffs of his sleeves.

“Didn’t know you were so patriotic for Gryffindor, neither,” Eggsy gestures to the scarf, and Harry raises a brow.

“Are you surprised at all?”

“No,” Eggsy answers immediately, and shrugs at Harry’s amused chuckle. “My best friend’s one of you Gryffindors, I’m used to you lot and your antics by now.”

They shuffle awkwardly as the conversation lulls; Harry tries not to be too obvious in staring, and from the way Eggsy shifts his weight from one foot to the other, it feels as strange to him to be out-of-context in Harry’s presence as Harry feels in Eggsy’s.

“Well,” Harry finally says, “If you’re not hurt at all, I best be off to meet the Headmaster for a pint. He’ll be wondering if I got lost if I take too long.”

“Meeting Roxy down at the Three Broomsticks for lunch, myself,” Eggsy nods in the direction of the pub a little further down the main street, its sign swaying cheerfully in the breeze.

The thought of offering his arm flashes through Harry’s mind and he resolutely keeps them at his side, giving Eggsy a smile instead. “Well, then, if you don’t mind that I’m walking the same way - Merlin expects me in the same place shortly.”

They turn together, setting a casual pace that’s perfect for the cooling September weather; in the sun it’s still rather pleasant, despite the wind, though the houses and stores along the cobbled street block much of it. With a direction to walk in and a destination in mind it’s more of a comfortable silence - though why it was awkward in the first place, Harry can’t put his finger on. He and Eggsy have been speaking quite frequently, between the time they see each other in class and the times when Eggsy had come to him outside of class about protection spells. There’s something about being outside of the castle, though - without the barrier of _student_ and _professor_ , because here they’re both just wizards out for a day in the village - and it’s slightly different and a little uncomfortable, like walking about in a new pair of shoes for the first time.

“I know, um,” Eggsy begins, and Harry pulls his eyes away from the store-fronts they’re passing to meet Eggsy’s gaze, “I know I”m not supposed to really talk about it, but - thanks, again. For the medallion. Feels worlds better, to be able to concentrate on my studies and not have to worry all the time about - well, you know.”

He lifts a shoulder, affecting nonchalance, but Harry can read the eased tension in his spine, the way Eggsy’s no longer taut with worry, and it’s instinct that makes him reach out and squeeze Eggsy’s shoulder in comfort.

“I won’t say it was nothing, because that would belittle how important it was to you,” Harry murmurs, “but there’s no need for repayment. If she’s safe, and you’re able to put your full effort into your studies, then one can’t ask for more than that.”

“Well,” Eggsy smiles, “My studies and Quidditch.”

“Of course,” Harry dips his head, “ _And_ Quidditch.”

The Three Broomsticks is bustling when they arrive; there’s no line out the door, but its interior is filled with students and professors alike, crowded around tables and milling around, greeting friends that they haven’t seen or had the time to catch up with since the end of the summer holidays. The warm smells of meat pies and chips fills the air, overlaid with the dense, sweet scent of butterbeer and _proper beer_ , as Merlin calls it. Harry can’t help but breathe it in; the aromas invoke memories of his own time at Hogwarts, the many weekend afternoons he’d spent here with Merlin when they were going through their years as students - and now, the precious hours when they can shed the obligations of being Headmaster and Professor long enough to share a pint.

Quite a few students greet Eggsy as they enter, shaking his hand or giving him a slap on the back - he grins at them, waves off the offer of a pint to scan the room for Roxy - who flags him down from an empty booth towards the back of the room.

“I’ll see you in class on Wednesday, yeah?” Eggsy says, turning to nod at Harry as he steps forward, smile still in place.

“If you survive Ashwick’s pop quiz in Charms,” Harry replies off-handedly, smirking to himself as Eggsy does a double-take and looks back at him with wide eyes.

“Wait, what-?” he starts to say, but Harry’s already winding his way through the crowded tables to the far end of the bar, chuckling.

It isn’t hard to spot Merlin; even among wizards, he’s the only bald man in the Three Broomsticks that afternoon - at least, the only one without facial hair to make up for the lack of hair on his head. It helps that he’s raising his eyebrows at Harry, too, over the brim of his half-empty pint of dark beer.

Harry slides onto the stool next to him, quirking an eyebrow at Merlin in return. “Imbibing early and often already?” he asks, lifting a hand to signal Madam Rosemerta for his usual drink.

“Board meeting,” Merlin grumbles, wiping the foam from his lip with the back of his hand. “First years, Harry, they’re worse than _first years_.”

“So you said before,” Harry chuckles, sipping from his own beer when it arrives - as good as firewhisky and butterbeer are, Muggles certainly knew what they were doing with Guinness.

"Was that Eggsy Unwin you walked in with?" Merlin asks; from the curious but stern look that he's shooting Harry, he clearly already knows the answer.

"I bumped into him on the way here - quite literally," Harry shrugs. "Out with Miss Morton for the afternoon, I believe."

"You know," Merlin says speculatively, swirling his glass and watching the beer's lacy foam cling to the sides, "When they were first years, I was sure that of the two of them, Roxy would be the one keeping Eggsy out of trouble. By the end of their first years, I swore the opposite - that Eggsy would be the one to balance out Roxy."

"And now?" Harry asks, smiling.

"Now? I wince any time I have to schedule double lectures for any Hufflepuff and Gryffindor combined class."

Harry laughs, and even Merlin manages to crack a weathered smile, and by the time their food comes their conversation is steady and teasing; after so many years of knowing each other, it's easy to fall into the patterns of old jokes and familiar stories. It's the end of September already, and although they work together and live in the same castle and make a point to meet up at least once a week, between Harry's classes and Merlin's oversight of the whole castle, there are plenty of stories to tell.

"But I am glad it's the end of September," Merlin says, lifting his glass to drain the last of his pint.

"Why's that?" Harry indulges him by asking, raising an eyebrow at Merlin's dry look.

"Well, for one, it means that the students - and Professors - are finally settled enough in their classes that no one gets really lost, confused, or hurt. Also - it means Quidditch season is right around the corner," Merlin smirks, "Which means I can once again enjoy as Ravenclaw wipes the floor with Gryffindor during the October practice match."

"They can very well try," Harry scoffs, "School spirits will be up again once the season starts and the teams pick new players - that's always a good thing."

"And there's Halloween to look forward to." Merlin smiles, and scratches the back of his head as he leans in towards Harry, "If nothing else, as Headmaster I can sit back and relax and enjoy the feast - not like the start-of-year feast, where I have to give a bloody speech and shepherd students and professors around. It's like everyone forgets everything during the summer holidays!"

"We can only pray the same won't happen over the Christmas holidays," Harry says, and Merlin snorts.

They continue to talk into the afternoon, until the waning September sun turns orange-gold in the light slanting through the cheerful pub's windows. The pint after pint that they consume are tempered by good food and time - though as the day wears on, Harry can't help but feel strangely aware of the presence of Eggsy behind him. Whether it's the beer heightening his sensitivity to Eggsy or the fact that Eggsy's laugh rings, genuine and joyful, through the rafters of the Three Broomsticks, the hair at the back of Harry's neck prickles like it's tuned to Eggsy's presence. He tries not to look, to relax into spending time with Merlin and put Eggsy out of his mind, but he finds himself stealing glances now and then to see if the young man is still there, and he can't shake the feeling of eyes heavy on his back when he remains turned around towards the bar.

Harry doesn't look back when he and Merlin exit the pub to return to the castle, the sunlight fading to a burnt red-orange and gilding the clouds with gold. He doesn't cast a glance in Eggsy's direction under the pretense of re-winding his scarf against the cold; he doesn't check to see if he's still with Miss Morton or other friends, or what he prefers to drink.

But in the mirror by the doorway Harry can't help taking a peek at his reflection and the bar behind him - and in the warped reflection of the Broomsticks dark interior, Eggsy's eyes are trained on him as he pauses in the doorway.

Harry tugs his scarf tighter and continues out into the September chill, catching up to Merlin before he notices Harry's divided attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more Kingsman and Hartwin-variety writing and art, join me in Hartwin trash hell and follow me on [tumblr!](http://venvephe.tumblr.com)
> 
> Expect the next chapter on October 1st :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eggsy, Roxy often tells him to his face, is rather like a hound on the scent when he's gotten an idea into his mind: on a single-track, determined, unerring and unwilling to stop until he has explored all possibilities - whether it plays out to success or not. Eggsy likes to tell her in return that saying so just reveals her upper-class upbringing, referring to hunting and hunting dogs like that, despite being from a Muggle family, and their cajoling more often than not turns to gentle fisticuffs from there.
> 
> Still, she isn't wrong, and Eggsy knows it - he can't help that once something's in his mind, he turns it over and over like a puzzle-box to be solved. He worries at things like a child with a loose tooth, niggling and wiggling until something comes loose.
> 
> That's how he finds himself back in Professor Hart's office for the third time in as many weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long - I've been quite busy as of late! Regardless, here's chapter three - I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Once again my unending thanks to everyone that has read, left kudos, commented, liked or reblogged this fic so far - it means the world to me to have your support, and I'm so happy that you're enjoying it! It makes the hard work of writing and editing this all the more worth it. I sincerely hope you like this chapter as much as the previous two!
> 
> However, this will be the last chapter until sometime in December; I'm going to give myself the month of November to finish this fic by doing NaNoWriMo! I ensure you I'll be busy writing writing writing all the way up until the 30th - but I won't post anything until December, at which point I'll try to get a regular update schedule in place! My plan is to finish this fic and, if I get farther than that, to tackle another new Hartwin thing - so wish me luck! However it turns out, I plan to have a huge chunk of this written by Christmas, and to move the plot forward as best I can. For now - enjoy chapter three, and thank you again for reading!!

Roxy accompanies Eggsy to the Owlery the next time he goes to give JB a letter home. With the beginning of October, their classes have been increasing in intensity, with more difficult subjects and more frequent quizzes and tests, and as a result they hadn't seen each other outside of class and hadn't had time to talk outside of school subjects at their study sessions in more than a week.

"But we don't have to go to the _Owlery_ ," Eggsy says again, despite the fact that he's leading the two of them up the winding path of staircases to exactly that part of the castle.

"Eggsy," Roxy sighs, smiling, "as I've said already, it's less about _what_ we do and more about the time we spend together. We could be in detention for all I care, and-"

"Well don't go that far," Eggsy snorts, but shoots her a smile over his shoulder. "Just - it's an errand, is all. Not a very fun thing to do in your spare time."

Roxy rolls her eyes. "I can spend my free time as I wish, and if this needs doing I don't mind at all. You got those nice treats for him in Hogsmeade, besides. Stairs never hurt anyone."

"I've read _Hogwarts, A History_ ," Eggsy shakes a finger at her, laughing as she has to jump over one of the disappearing steps up to the towers. "I know for a fact that that isn't true."

The Owlery is quiet when they get there - well, quiet in terms of other students: with dusk approaching, the owls are beginning to wake up, so the top of the tower is filled with the sounds of rustling feathers, the scratching of claws, the hoots and occasional screeches of the owls themselves. Eggsy's barely stepped into the round, high-ceilinged room when there's a trilling hoot from above, and like a brown-feathered comet JB swoops down to land on Eggsy's shoulder, nuzzling into his ear and clicking his beak happily.

"Oi, no biting!" Eggsy turns his head and pushes gently at the little owl when he gets too aggressive with his affections. "JB, oi! If you need a snack, look at what I've brought you."

JB is quite happy with the little smelly biscuit-like treats that Eggsy had bought at the Hogsmeade post office - they're really quite smelly, Eggsy's ready to admit, but as the shopkeeper had promise JB is mad for them - and it takes no time at all to tie his letter to the owl's leg. He's careful not to tie it too tight, though JB is too preoccupied with his snack to nip at Eggsy's fingers, and Roxy strokes his tawny brown-and-cream striped feathers while he finishes up.

"Daisy's okay?" Roxy asks, nodding to the slip of parchment now secured to JB's leg.

"Right as rain," Eggsy smiles, scratching his fingers through the feathers on the top of JB's small head, careful to avoid the affectionate nipping of his sharp little beak. "An' it's a relief that she's safe, but it's nice to just concentrate on the schoolwork, too."

"Just the schoolwork?" Roxy raises an eyebrow, and Eggsy can't help the blush that rises to his cheeks. He sticks his tongue out at her in lieu of responding, which quickly turns into a yelp of surprise and Eggsy windmilling his arms to stay upright as JB mistakes him making a face at Roxy as play, darting in to try to grab at Eggsy's tongue. Roxy doubles over in laughter as JB takes to the air, chirping and hooting and flying tight circles around Eggsy, who nearly trips on his robe and tumbles to the dirty Owlery floor in trying to fend off the pint-size owl.

Eggsy rightens his robe and laughs once JB finally settles on a nearby perch, tilting his head back and forth at Eggsy in the way owls do, and after another treat to cajole him, he flies up and out into the star-studded evening sky, heading due south for London.

JB and Eggsy's antics are enough distraction that on their way back down to the main level of the castle, Roxy doesn't further pry into the matter of Eggsy's crush - which is a good thing, Eggsy thinks, as he turns the matter over in his mind himself. It had been strange - in a good way, he supposes - to bump into Professor Hart outside of the castle. It served as a reminder that he's a person too, someone with a life of more than just the title of Professor and a professional history with defending against the dark arts. Whether or not _that_ was a good thing to add to his subconscious' imagination, Eggsy isn't sure. Because knowing that Professor Hart is a person as much as he is - a man as much as he is, who has fast enough reflexes to catch him strongly around the waist, looks rather fetching outside of his professor robes and in a Gryffindor scarf, smiles so bright and wide once he's had a pint of Guinness with those long, long legs stretching out in front of him under the bar - well, knowing all of _that_ doesn't seem to be doing much in terms of Eggsy controlling his not-quite-a-crush.

He chews his lip as he thinks, remembering to hop over the missing step in the staircase as Roxy chats to him about her advanced Arithmancy class. He'd like to blame the shot of firewhisky he'd taken with Roxy - a tradition for the first visit to Hogsmeade since they'd reached the drinking age - or the pint Jamal had bought him, but he knows he himself is to blame for sneaking glances in Harry Hart's direction the entire afternoon in the Three Broomsticks. God, those _legs_ , though.

"Eggsy," Roxy says in warning, and Eggsy looks up just in time to hop over to the doorway as the staircase starts to rumble and shift, swinging to attach to another hallway in the castle, and Roxy shakes her head, wryly amused. "You weren't listening to anything I was saying at all, were you?"

"You were talking Arithmancy," Eggsy sighs, and suffers another one of Roxy's over-the-shoulder glares.

"Arithmancy that's relevant to what we're learning in Defense, you tit," she says. "You'd have known that if you were paying attention. What's gotten into you?"

"It's nothing, Rox," Eggsy groans, sensing that his best friend is just getting warmed up to the subject. The Gryffindor narrows her eyes shrewdly, stepping closer as they turn from the library hallway towards the Hufflepuff dorms - and the Hogwarts kitchens.

"Don't think you were being particularly subtle in Hogsmeade," she leans closer to half-whisper to him, and Eggsy tilts his head back and groans. Of course Roxy noticed.

He opens his mouth to assure her that it's nothing, again, when they pass another student on the stairs, going up as they're going down, and Roxy almost trips over her own feet. Eggsy manages to catch her arm as she wobbles but, to his surprise, she quickly shakes him off - and when Eggsy looks up at the other student, he knows why.

It's Sophie, one of the more tolerable Slytherins in their upper-level Defense Against the Dark Arts class, possibly the most graceful witch at Hogwarts. There's no way of telling - without asking, of course - but Eggsy privately swears that she has a background in some sort of Muggle dance, from her agility on the Quidditch pitch to the stunningly dangerous grace she exhibits every time there's hands-on dueling practice in Defense class.

As always, she's perfectly put-together; her dark hair is sleek and combed, robe pressed and silver-and-green tie expertly knotted. Sophie's eyes flick up to them as she passes with a quiet clatter of her heels on the stone stairs, the glimmer of a smirk at the corner of her mouth.

"Morton," she nods, "Unwin."

Even after she passes, Roxy follows her with her eyes, tilting her head to watch as Sophie disappears up the flight of stairs and down a nearby corridor.

Eggsy looks between the empty doorway Sophie had just disappeared to and Roxy's face, which is just beginning to bloom into a bright-cheeked blush.

"And what's that?" Eggsy waggles his eyebrows, hopping down a step so he and Roxy are eye to eye. She quirks a quick smile, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and continuing down the stairs with as much nonchalance as she can muster - which isn't enough to fool Eggsy, considering they are best friends and she is rather Gryffindor.

"Nothing for you to worry about," she says breezily, falling into stride with him.

"Don't look like nothing," Eggsy wheedles, and she shoots him a smirk.

"It's nothing _yet_ ," she admits with a conspiratorial smile, "and your distraction attempts still don't pass. Your obsession with Professor Hart-"

"Crush, it's a _crush_ ," Eggsy replies with a groan, "Can't very well help it, can I? An' in Hogsmeade it weren't like I planned to run into him, or for him to-"

He shuts his mouth before any more can come out, teeth clicking, and the look Roxy sends him is positively stormy. Eggsy hasn't seen her look so determinedly protective since fifth year, with the incident with the Slytherin beaters.

"What did he do?" she nearly growls, and Eggsy gently swats at her, put his hands up in defense.

"Nothing, Rox! Nothing that any polite bloke who walked right into another wouldn't do - caught me from falling, is all. He nearly knocked me on my arse, but he apologized for it, besides." Eggsy releases a pent-up breath as Roxy gives him a stern look but nods, satisfied, at his explanation.

"Crush or not, Eggsy, he's a Professor. You are a student. There are lines that shouldn't be crossed." Roxy nudges his shoulder with hers, and after the last flight of stairs they reach the kitchen door, which she holds open for him to duck through first. The lines of her shoulders relax once they're out of the corridors; this is a conversation best had in private, after all.

"Believe me, I'm well aware," Eggsy frowns at her, "He is too, probably. Looked stiff as a board after, and not in the fun way."

"Eggsy," Roxy sighs, and he can only grin as he settles onto his usual stool.

"Had to lighten the conversation somehow," he winks, and she rolls her eyes again.

"And Sophie?" he asks, when they've both sat down and a plate of biscuits slides onto their little table in the corner, by a house-elf wielding quite the oversized pair of oven mitts. "A Slytherin? That's not off-limits, eh?"

"Well," Roxy smirks, taking one of the steaming biscuits off the top of the pile and taking a bite, chewing as she smiles coyly back at Eggsy, "that's what makes it fun."

When Eggsy lays in bed hours later, biscuits consumed and homework done, he turns the conversation over in his mind and can only hope that the forbidden nature of crushing on a Professor is what sends the sparks up his spine when he meets Professor Hart's eyes, the pleasant clench in his stomach when Professor Hart enters the room.

Because if it's more than that, well - Eggsy doesn't know what it is, and Eggsy's in plenty of trouble enough as it stands.

 

\--

 

Eggsy, Roxy often tells him to his face, is rather like a hound on the scent when he's gotten an idea into his mind: on a single-track, determined, unerring and unwilling to stop until he has explored all possibilities - whether it plays out to success or not. Eggsy likes to tell her in return that saying so just reveals her upper-class upbringing, referring to hunting and hunting dogs like that, despite being from a Muggle family, and their cajoling more often than not turns to gentle fisticuffs from there.

Still, she isn't wrong, and Eggsy knows it - he can't help that once something's in his mind, he turns it over and over like a puzzle-box to be solved. He worries at things like a child with a loose tooth, niggling and wiggling until something comes loose.

That's how he finds himself back in Professor Hart's office for the third time in as many weeks.

They've moved on from Advanced Defense Charms to Curse-Breaking - Professor Hart had thought it prudent to have them learn more ways to defend themselves before any possible accidents occurred in the practical demonstrations and practice sessions on Curse-Breaking, which has proved to be wise thus far - and to his surprise, Eggsy finds it to be a fascinating subject. They've read about the most famous examples of cursed objects in wizarding history, as well as touched upon the three forbidden curses, and Eggsy can't help that he has more questions than either his books or Professor Hart can answer in class.

Already he's spent two pleasant afternoons that turned into evenings in Professor Hart's company, debating and discussing different methods of identifying and then breaking curses on a variety of magical objects. The Professor is intelligent, widely experienced in almost all of the practical areas of Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Eggsy relishes the fact he's able to pick his brain as well as get to know the man better. He's full of the most interesting - and unbelievable - stories relating to whatever they're studying.

"Fuck off, there's no way that could've happened!" Eggsy barks with delight as Professor Hart finishes telling him about an enchanted - well, cursed - Muggle telephone that wouldn't stop its operatic singing despite the attempts of its ill-fated owners. On top of its enthusiastic yodeling, the wizards that came to own it had no idea what a proper telephone was meant for in the first place, and because it was Muggle technology it was highly unresponsive to any magical attempts to quiet it - to the point of physical and magical aggression, if Professor Hart's story is to be believed.

"Language," Professor Hart replies, though he's smiling down at the parchments he's been trying to grade for the past hour as Eggsy distracts him. Eggsy grins, leaning backwards so his chair is tipped onto two feet. It's comfortable like this - scattered conversation as Professor Hart grades his papers, Eggsy coming up with questions to ask and new ways to wheedle stories out of him  - and Eggsy enjoys what's becoming a Thursday-afternoon habit. He'd venture to say that Professor Hart feels the same - at least, Eggsy hasn't been kicked out for being too distracting yet.

"So you're telling me," Eggsy says when his chuckles die down, "that, say, Professor Valentine is the most dangerous of you lot, because with his knowledge of Muggle objects as well as magic, he could figure out the perfect curse to do a lot of damage?"

"Theoretically, yes," Harry raises his eyebrows, but doesn't look up from the scrawled essay he's supposed to be reading and grading. "Though as you should know from your reading, whether a curse that is hard to break is dangerous or not depends very much on the intention of the wizard who casts it. Plenty of cursed Muggle objects could be rendered annoying - but nothing more - without the perfect curse. Valentine has neither the intention _or_ attention to play with such dangerous magic- you've had classes with him, have you not?"

"Was a first year once," Eggsy grins, "but I grew up in a Muggle family - not much for me to learn. I know what you mean, though - ain't the kind of bloke to get into that kind of thing, is he? He's right happy just inventing and trying to drag Wizards into the modern age of Muggle technology as it is."

"Indeed," Professor Hart says dryly, "and I must say," Referring to your Professors as 'you lot' isn't going to get you very far in their graces, by the way."

"Should I be wanting to get into their good graces, then?" Eggsy dips his chin to smirk at Harry through his lashes, stomach somersaulting at his own bravado. Harry just snorts, waving a hand to magically shift half of the messy pile of parchment scrolls towards Eggsy's side of his desk.

"If you're going to bother me," he says with a small smile, setting a quill and one of the vials of brilliant blue ink down on top of the stack of papers, "you may as well assist me in getting through the fourth year's attempts to thrill me about werewolves."

Eggsy rolls his eyes, but picks up the quill and pulls the parchment stack towards him, scooting closer to the desk - and Professor Hart.

He didn't rise to the bait, but he didn't kick Eggsy out, either. And any excuse to spend more time with Professor Hart is a good enough excuse for Eggsy.

 

\--

 

October continues in a predictable - but comfortable - routine. The weather cools; the trees start to lose their leaves, hot mugs of spiced cider and cocoa start to appear along with each nights’ dinner; the library fills more and more as the courses move forward with harder material and the students focus in on their studies. All the signs of the fall season are upon them - from the night air so crisp they can see their breath to the rowdy excitement of the first Quidditch practices of the school year.

Harry, for one, takes pleasure in the progress of these things - he’s never one to turn down some Hogwarts-made cider, no matter what Lance says about needing to produce a stronger, more alcoholic brew - and though it means more grading, he enjoys seeing his students learn and grow as well. The first years are always a delight, if a haphazard one; even the wizard-born students are round-eyed and enchanted with the pint-sized creatures he brings into class or the spells he demonstrates for them. The older students are finally getting to the subjects that he, personally, has the most interest in. The seventh years learn particularly quickly - as expected from a NEWT-level class - and their Wednesday afternoons are far from boring.

He's at the point where he can admit to himself that yes, he has a vested interest in one of his seventh year students in particular. If Merlin has started to cotton on, Harry could admit it to himself: Eggsy Unwin is interesting, and his quick wit and easygoing demeanor are as charming as his obvious fascination with learning everything he can about Defense Against the Dark Arts. Harry can’t think of a student with such a voracious appetite for knowledge since he himself was at Hogwarts - and was dragged to the library at all hours for Merlin to sate his curiosity for whatever they were learning at least three times in any given week. The now-headmaster was as easily absorbed in research as he is in the present, though his leadership duties often prevent him from settling down with a thick book.

Merlin would roll his eyes to hear that Eggsy reminds Harry of him, Harry muses. He carefully dips his quill into his grading ink - dark emerald in color this week, for a change - and lets the excess bleed back into the inkwell before leaning in and reading once more. The second years have the most remarkable interpretations on the spelling of _Verdimillious Duo._

Harry's so busy grading essays that he barely notices the passing of time over the course of the afternoon, but he’s snapped out of his dream-like grading trance when a sharp knock sounds at his door.

“Come i-” he begins to say, but the door swings open before he finishes the invitation and Harry suppresses a smile - there’s only one person it could be, then. He leans back in his chair, lacing his fingers together and resting them on top of the spilling pile of scrolls he’s yet to grade.

Eggsy nearly tumbles into the room, tripping over his feet and laughing as he tugs the heavy door open and then leans back on it to push it closed behind him. Harry’s used to seeing Eggsy in such a state - grinning, face bright with joy, bursting to tell Harry something about his day or unable to keep his mouth shut for all the questions he has pent up in his mind.

What Harry’s _not_ used to is seeing Eggsy in his Quidditch kit.

Eggsy’s a little out of breath, flushed pink in the face from exertion and the wind; his Hufflepuff uniform is so streaked with dirt and grass stains that it’s as brown and green as it is yellow, and he’s tracking clods of messy earth into Harry’s office with every step he takes. Harry should be annoyed about that - he’s got a nice carpet in front of the desk, after all - but he can’t tear his eyes away from the hollow of Eggsy’s throat, slick with sweat and shining in the late-afternoon light.

“Sorry I’m a bit late,” Eggsy says, slurring his words a little with excitement. He moves to sit in the chair opposite Harry and then pauses partway through the movement, looking down at the mess by his boots and the state of his Quidditch robes, and slides a step to the side so he can just lean against Harry’s desk instead of getting dirt all over the cushy wingback. Eggsy runs a gloved hand through his sweat-damp hair, which really only serves to spike it further, and he grins at Harry. “First practice of the year, and all that.”

“All that indeed,” Harry says faintly, eyebrows raised and trying to remember what Eggsy is late for. Quidditch certainly looks exhilarating from the stands, to Harry, but it’s quite another thing to see Eggsy like this - the living embodiment of the adrenaline of the pitch and the joy of swooping through the air on a broomstick. His eyes dart to the flushed sheen of Eggsy’s throat again and he drags his gaze away, resolutely keeping them trained on Eggsy’s face and no lower.

“I take it that practice went well?” he asks, lifting his wand to swish and sweep away the dirt and grass Eggsy’s tracked in, a quick wordless cleaning spell that only makes Eggsy’s grin widen. Something about Eggsy’s sun-bright smile makes Harry’s own heartbeat jump and quicken, as if he’d been the one out in the field, not Eggsy.

“Fuc- really brilliant,” Eggsy nods, licking his lips. He reaches up to tug off his gloves and then starts on the front laces of his Quidditch robe, and Harry’s mouth goes dry. “Team’s in good form after summer hols. Ain’t gonna be playing ‘til after Gryffindor and Slytherin have their bout, mid-November, so we got plenty of time to practice and have try-outs to find a new Seeker.”

“It’s almost hard to believe it’s Quidditch season again already,” Harry replies, for lack of something to say as Eggsy’s yellow-brown-green robe pools on the floor at Eggsy’s feet. The fabric of his black long-sleeved shirt stretches over his muscles when he bends to pick it up and toss it over the chair.

“About bloody time,” Eggsy grins, and pulls out his own wand to do a quick clean of his boots and trousers before he sits and scoots his chair closer to the desk, “but that ain’t no excuse to be late for helping you grade, eh?”

“I do appreciate the assistance,” Harry says, clearing his throat and picking a stack of essays off the top of the pile to hand over. Eggsy’s hand is warm, over-warm when it brushes against his, and Harry glances up the length of his arm to the curves of Eggsy’s biceps. He’d noticed the new muscle on Eggsy’s form when he’d first stepped off the train, though Harry hadn’t recognized him at the time, but up close it’s somehow different to see how Eggsy’s matured - grown - in the past few months.

“Don’t mind, do you? Sorry I was late, but if it bothers you I’m just back from practice…” Eggsy trails off, reaching for a quill hesitantly, clearly feeling the weight of Harry’s stare. That’s enough to dislodge the thoughts from Harry’s mind, and he shakes his head at Eggsy, smiling.

“I don’t mind at all, Eggsy,” Harry says, shooting him a grin before turning back to the paper in front of him, “If you can tolerate a few second-year papers on discovering cursed objects and the correct application of the _Verdimillious Duo_ spell, I can tolerate some dirt on my carpet in exchange.”

Eggsy chuckles and wiggles his now-clean boots for Harry to see, and soon after they both get to grading, heads bent in and focused on the task at hand.

In the end, it’s rather a good thing that Eggsy stopped by to help, though Harry doesn’t remember them specifically discussing that afternoon as a time for Eggsy to share in the grading; Harry’s so thoroughly distracted that he reads the same essay twice before realizing that through the entire thing, his student has been writing _Verdimillious_ as _Vermicellius_.

 

\--

 

“You’re going to the party tomorrow night, right?” Jamal asks when he plops down into the seat beside Eggsy at breakfast. Jamal, always a morning person and bright-eyed _before_ his first cup of tea, is practically beaming at the idea. Eggsy, still drained from Quidditch practice the evening before, doesn’t even have the energy to roll his eyes at the question.

“It’s the annual Halloween party,” he says through a mouthful of toast, munching lazily, “and _Hufflepuff_ is hosting it this year. Of course I’m going to be there, you berk.”

“Good, good,” Jamal claps him on the back and reaches for the bangers and mash, nudging Eggsy in the side with his elbow good-naturedly. “Haven’t seen you much lately is all, yeah? Weren’t sure you were gonna be there.”

“There are these things called classes,” Eggsy swallows and reaches for the jam again, raising his eyebrows at Jamal in jest. “You should try going to them, keeps you quite busy.”

“Ha ha, very funny,” Jamal grins and waves him off, nodding hello to Ryan when he sits down with a groan across from them. “That don’t explain where you are most afternoons these days. Thought it was weird last year to find you in the library so much before the OWLs, but now you’re as hard to find as Merlin’s hair.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Eggsy mutters, shooting a glance up to the Professor’s table with a smirk.

“Quidditch is in full swing,” Ryan reminds Jamal, waving his spoon like a wand to get the other Hufflepuff’s attention, “Last night was only the second practice with our potential new Seeker - she’s great, but it still takes some getting used to, with the team learning to work together again.”

“Don’t need to worry about me or the bludgers,” Eggsy smiles, “Or Meg and the snitch - she’ll be fine, she’s got sharp eyes. You lot with the Quaffle are the ones that need extra practice.”

Ryan protests mid-sip of his morning tea, dribbling out the sides of his cup, and they dissolve into laughter at the sight just as the owls fly in with the morning post. Ryan’s only just wiped the tea from his mouth and shirt-sleeve when JB comes rocketing down the center of the Hufflepuff table, causing several other students to lean back away from the table so their cups of pumpkin juice and slices of toast aren’t sent flying. It takes Eggsy a minute to coax JB into staying still long enough to remove the curled parchment tied to his ankle, and by then their conversation has veered wildly off course.

“But the party,” Jamal rounds on Eggsy again, and across from them Ryan lights up at the mention of it. “You’ve got to be there, mate. Invite Roxy - hell, invite any seventh year you know - and we’ll have a bloody brilliant time.”

“Ain’t no party like a Hufflepuff party,” Ryan agrees, and Eggsy snorts.

“Even if Hufflepuff wasn’t hosting this year,” he says, “every sixth and seventh year is going to be there. It’s the halfway point of the first semester - and Halloween besides, plenty reason to celebrate.”

“And there’ll be butterbeer,” Ryan interjects, and Eggsy raises his glass in a mock-toast.

“ _And_ there’ll be butterbeer, and hopefully something even stronger,” he tosses back the rest of his juice and exchanges excited grins with Jamal and Ryan. They’re right - Hufflepuffs throw one hell of a party, and Eggsy’s determined to make sure that this year is no exception to that rule.

They’re also right that Eggsy’s been scarce as of late, he knows that himself; he’s only spent a few afternoons in the past few weeks in the Hufflepuff common room, between Quidditch and studying with Roxy in the library or Gryffindor tower, and - well.

The less they know about where he’s been spending most of his time, the better.

 

 

 

Of all the feasts that Hogwarts hosts over the course of the school year, the Hallowe’en feast is perhaps second only to Christmas in decoration, and is by far the most anticipated by the student body. What the Hallowe’en feast lacks in beauty - there really is no comparison to Hogwarts at Christmastime, Eggsy readily admits - it makes up for in other festive decorations. The candles that usually light the Great Hall have been replaced by jack-o’-lanterns, pumpkins of all sizes carved with various cheerful and mischievous and spooky faces. They line the Hall’s stairs and sides and float above the busy tables, the candles behind their eyes flickering - a few are even charmed to make faces as they hover around, winking at the students below. The usually star-lit ceiling is filled with purple-blue clouds and hanging orange streamers, live bats darting to and fro across the room and clinging upside-down to the vaulted ceiling wherever they can find purchase. Between the charmed decorations and the living ones, it’s quite the sight to see - not to mention the school ghosts, who are immensely enjoying the festivities and making merry with the students and Professors alike.

“Went all-out again this year, didn’t they?” Roxy asks, dropping into the empty seat beside Eggsy at the Hufflepuff table. She leans back against it, resting her elbows on the only bare spot to be found, looking up at the snickering pumpkins floating gently along above them.

“Professor Hadley’s been helping Professor Gawain with the pumpkins for the past month,” Eggsy tells her, wiping his mouth after taking a long gulp from his goblet, “See ‘em growing every time I have Care of Magical Creatures and I’m down by the Grounds-keeper Cottage. There are some _massive_ ones out there; they only made the wee ones into jack-o’-lanterns.”

“Hadley and Gawain, huh?” Roxy raises her eyebrows, and Eggsy waggles his eyebrows, finishing up the last of the carrot cake on his plate.

“They’re not at Lance-Ashwick levels of romance, yet, so I don’t think there’s much there to talk about,” he says, nodding in the direction of the head table - where the men in question are arguing, visible even from across the crowded Great Hall. It’s hardly a secret that there’s something brewing between the Potions and Charms professors; Eggsy wouldn’t be surprised if any day now one of their frequent debates turned into a snogging session in front of the entire school.

Roxy grins, tilting her head slightly to catch sight of the two of them at the front of the room, and shaking her head at the fact that they appeared to _still_ be entrenched in a passionate debate. “That’s a high bar to meet,” she chuckles, “Still, though - the decorations are quite lovely.”

“If by lovely, you mean pleasantly festive and spooky,” Eggsy nods towards the bats overhead, and the clouds - which keep flashing as if threatening thunder and lightning. “Everyone’s gotten into the spirit - the ghosts especially, if you can forgive the pun.”

“I _do_ mean that it is pleasantly spooky,” Roxy insists with a smile. “You can’t blame the ghosts, either. This is rather their holiday.”

“Indeed it is,” he replies, motioning to where the Fat Friar is seated near the end of the Hufflepuff table, entertaining the first and second years there with tales of his life and after-life, gesticulating merrily along with his stories.

Roxy scoots closer along the bench until their thighs are pressed together, leaning in conspiratorially as she whisks Eggsy’s goblet off the table and takes a sip for herself. “Tell me, though,” she murmurs with a sly grin, “are Hufflepuff’s decorations as good as the ones in here?”

Eggsy gently pries her fingers off his pumpkin juice and drains the rest of the goblet, winking at Roxy over the gilded rim of the cup. He sets it back down on the long table with a gentle clink, looking back and forth across the Great Hall - as if checking that no one is watching them or eavesdropping on their conversation. No one is, of course - the Great Hall is far too loud and crowded to hear any one conversation amongst so many others, and everyone’s caught up in the cheer of the holiday and the festivities of the feast, eagerly awaiting the entertainment to come. There’s no one paying attention to the lone Gryffindor at the Hufflepuff table, or the one she’s conversing with.

Eggsy pointedly doesn’t let his eyes linger too long on the head table or even allow himself to take note of where Professor Hart is looking, and he leans in towards Roxy again with a smirk.

“If you don’t mind missing the end of the feast…” he trails off, and she beckons for him to continue with a raised eyebrow, “wanna come see?”

Roxy glances around too, biting her lip - the aerial formation flying that the Hogwarts ghosts do every year for the student body _is_ a sight to see, though in their six previous years at Hogwarts they’ve seen about as much as that entertainment has to offer - and eventually Roxy’s curiosity wins out over whatever the school has _officially_ planned.

“Let’s go,” she mutters, grinning at Eggsy’s delighted smile. They've always been like-minded, despite being in different houses - and they've always been a little on the rule-breaking side. Eggsy grabs one of the black cat-shaped chocolate biscuits as he slides out of his seat and, as calmly and confidently as possible, heads for one of the hallways leading out of the Great Hall and towards the Hufflepuff dormitories.

As soon as he’s out of sight of the head table he ducks around a dimly-lit corner and waits for Roxy to appear - which is only moments later, her arrival announced by the soft clatter of her shoes against the polished stone. Roxy links her arm with his and they stride side-by-side down the corridor, heading in the direction of the downward stairs.

“Two parties in one night,” Roxy tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and smiles brightly, tugging at Eggsy’s arm in hers, “All Hallow’s Eve is my favorite holiday - after Christmas, I think.”

“It’s hard to say no to two parties,” Eggsy agrees, and leads them down the set of winding stairs, towards the cozy and warmly-lit corridors by the kitchens. The smell of fresh stew and baked bread and pumpkins with nutmeg and cinnamon spice is even stronger here; it’s a heady smell of the autumn season that’s a perfect offset for the coming cold, though with all the cooking done that evening, the hallways are as warm as ever.

“It’s going to be hard to compete with the Ravenclaw Halloween party last year,” Roxy reminds Eggsy, and he can only smirk in reply as he reaches tap the wooden barrels.

“Wait and see, Rox,” he says, “Just wait and see.”

 

 

Eggsy and Roxy arrive in the Hufflepuff common room just as the last of the decorations are going up; it’s perfect timing, because the common room is decked out but not yet packed full of students - so the decorations are on full display. Eggsy grins at how Roxy’s eyes widen at the sight of it, delighted with her reaction at the Hufflepuffs’ hard work.

“Came by just when we were finishing up, eh?” Ryan asked, perched precariously at the top of the ladder and tacking the last of the streamers up above the fireplace. The ladder groans and sways as Ryan crosses his arms and leans on it, making an imploring face down at Eggsy, and Jamal is quick to jump forward and anchor the base of the ladder before it tips any further. He shakes his head up at Ryan, who smirks down at him, before turning back to Eggsy and Roxy.

“I helped all afternoon before the feast,” Eggsy reminds them, pointing up at the decorations mounted high along the ceiling, “helped out with my broom - safer than that ladder you’ve got, anyways.”

“It's brilliant,” Roxy says, still looking around in amazement. The Hufflepuff common room - comforting and homey as it always is - has been further transformed into the coziest Halloween party room they could’ve imagined. The squashy armchairs and sofas have been transfigured from their usual Hufflepuff golds and blacks to pumpkin-orange and purple, some patterned with little black bats or cobwebs or jack-o’-lanterns. For more seating, the Hufflepuffs borrowed some stools from the kitchens nearby - with permission from the house elves, of course - and the common room has been rearranged so that the chairs are around the edge of the room, leaving plenty of room in the middle as a dance floor. There’s a long table with refreshments pushed against the wall under the windows, and the sconces are flickering with candlelight - as are the pumpkins in the windows. The fireplace glows green with a magical fire, hissing out gold sparks every once in a while, and orange and black streamers and banners criss-cross the ceiling amidst floating candles and licorice bats, which have been spelled to flap their wings and squeak periodically.

“Aren’t the bats a bit much?” Eggsy asks, waving one away with a laugh when it gets too close. Ryan chuckles, stepping down off the ladder and picking a chocolate frog out of a cauldron full of Honeyduke's sweets.

“Nah,” he grins, “Won’t hear the squeaking over the music anyways, once Patrick’s got it sorted. We should be good to go any minute now.”

It isn’t long before the common room is filled with the muted thump of bass - how Patrick got modern music to work in Hogwarts, Eggsy doesn’t know  - and before they know it, sixth and seventh year students from every house are arriving through the hidden entrance in the stack of barrels. The awe and delight on their faces at the sight of their decorations and the array of Halloween sweets is obvious, and the party is in full swing by the time the kegs of butterbeer are brought out from the boy’s dormitories.

Eggsy and Roxy toast, clink their glasses, and down the first pint of butterbeer together, laughing when they come away with white foam clinging to their upper lips. After that Eggsy has a round with Ryan and Jamal, in supposed celebration of effective decorating - if Ryan’s enthusiastic chatter is to be believed - and it’s halfway through his third pint that Roxy drags him out onto the filling dance floor, cheers going up from the crowd as a familiar song thrums through packed common room.

They don’t have much in the way of costumes besides the simple, harmless spells they know as sixth and seventh years - glamour transfiguration spells to change hair color, or the color and cut of their robes, as well as whatever amusing effects were brought on by the Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes students brought to the party - but the spirit of Halloween is alive and well. Not long after Eggsy and Roxy hit the dance floor the Fat Friar comes floating down from the ceiling above, looking gleefully down at the party before joining some students laughing by the fireplace, whooping and shouting joyfully over a raucous game of Exploding Snap. Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Slytherin - friends dancing no matter what houses they’re from, drinking and laughing and having a great time.

Eggsy wraps an arm around Roxy’s shoulder and pulls her in, just in time to keep her away from a mug of butterbeer crashing to the floor behind her - she looks over her shoulder at the sound of the glass hitting the wood floor and pulls out her wand to help clean up the mess, shooting Eggsy a grateful smile.

“Good reflexes!” she leans in and half-shouts in his ear when she and another student have finished mopping up the beer with their wands, slinging her arm around Eggsy’s neck companionably. They’ve never dated - they were too good of friends by the time either of them started being interested in other students romantically, Roxy’s predilection for her own sex aside - but it’s still fun to dance in the throng of students, pleasantly buzzed on butterbeer and the tangible high of celebration. Roxy’s face is a little flushed from the warmth of the room and the alcohol; Eggsy’s sure his face looks much the same. They dance to the heavy rhythmic thump of the music, laughing with their fellow students when they bump into each other and shouting along to the lyrics they know amid the din of noise.

Then, over Roxy’s shoulder, Eggsy spots a familiar head of long, dark hair nearing the dance floor, and in a quick-footed move manages to spin them so that Roxy’s facing the right direction.

“Look who’s here!” Eggsy wags his eyebrows, tilting his head to the right - and watching as Roxy’s eyes snap over his shoulder and lock on Sophie. Eggsy can tell the exact moment it happens, that Roxy spots Sophie; her chin dips and her eyes dart to the floor before looking back up, grinning shyly through the crowd, and Eggsy smiles at her reaction.

“Looks good tonight, don’t she?” Eggsy mutters, and Roxy doesn’t roll her eyes at him, but her mouth twitches like she wants to.

“Sophie _always_ looks good,” she replies, as if it’s obvious - which it is, because Eggsy’s never seen Sophie looking anything other than impeccably put-together and poised. “But how do I look? Am I-”

“You look fine, love,” Eggsy laughs, tugging on Roxy’s Gryffindor tie to straighten it playfully, twisting so he can watch Sophie make her way through the crush of people towards them. Her dark eyes haven’t left Roxy, a small smirk on her lips as the crowd parts to let her through once they see who it is. She’s all long-legged grace, moving to the beat of the music as she approaches, hair swaying behind her in a long curtain. Eggsy purses his lips in a grin at the awe on the faces of the students she slides past; Roxy’s managing to play it a little bit cooler than that, though not by much.

“Unwin,” Sophie greets him with a small smile and a quick flick of her eyes, turning her attention to Roxy. “Miss Morton. Care to dance?”

“I- yeah. Yes,” Roxy gives her a breathless grin, cheeks pinkening further. She barely glances at Eggsy as he makes his excuses of needing another beer to step away from the two of them, leaving them in the middle of the dance floor to get to know each other better. Immediately the crowd swallows them up behind him, though through the waving arms and dancing bodies Eggsy can spot Sophie stepping forward and murmuring something in Roxy’s ear that makes her chuckle, her hands sliding around Roxy’s waist as they begin to dance to the languid beat. He shakes his head to himself as he finds a glass and pours himself another pint of butterbeer from the nearest, nearly-empty keg; he doesn’t mind at all being Roxy’s wingman, and can’t help but be happy for her if she’s truly interested in Sophie, as the attraction seems to be mutual. He can only hope that she knows what she’s getting herself into - which would be a little hypocritical of him, perhaps, but an amusing conversation to have with Roxy again regardless. A _Slytherin_ and a _Gryffindor._

There’s still stranger things he’s seen at Hogwarts, though, so Eggsy only chuckles to himself and scans the crowd to look for Ryan or Jamal.

He spots them across the room, leaning against one of the far walls with beers in hand and snickering to themselves; it’s a bit of a hassle crossing the crowded room to get to them, packed as it is with the entirety of the sixth and seventh year classes, but it’s worth it for the way their eyes light up and the enthusiastic thumps on the back he receives.

“Having a fine night, gents?” Eggsy asks, smirking as he takes another pull from his beer. They laugh, clinking their half-empty glasses together, and Ryan gestures at the party behind Eggsy indistinctly, grinning.

“Hufflepuff puts on hell of a party,” he says, slurring a little, and Jamal barks out a laugh when Ryan begins to tip; he rights him with a touch on the shoulder, just as he’d done before with the ladder. “Knew it would be better than last year.”

“Last year you threw up on Gemma Ellesmere,” Eggsy reminds him, and Ryan makes a face at the memory that sets them off laughing again.

They don’t end up dancing; Ryan made it very obvious that any attempts in getting him to do so would result in Eggsy or Jamal - or both of them - having a front-row seat in an encore of last year’s Halloween party, so they spend the late hours of the evening propped up on one side of the common room talking. Between Quidditch and classes and the time he spends in Professor Hart’s office, Eggsy’s quite behind on the latest news and gossip with his friends, and they welcome the opportunity for catching Eggsy up. The three of them have to nearly shout to be heard over the pounding of the music and the dull roar of other voices, but with butterbeer to soothe their tired throats and loosen their lips, time passes quickly as they trade tale for tale.

Jamal’s in the middle of telling the two of them about the girl in his NEWT-level Divination class and her humorous but perplexingly accurate tea readings when he looks up, stopping short in the middle of his story to glare across the crowded common room. He leans in to Ryan and Eggsy, tugging them forward to huddle so that they can hear him.

“Don’t look now,” he says as quietly as he can, nodding over their heads towards the Hufflepuff entrance, “but a dick and his crony nutsacks just got to the party.”

From Jamal’s stormy expression, Eggsy knows there’s only one person it can be - and when he twists to look over his shoulder, he finds that he’s right. His hand clenches tighter around the pint glass in his hand, and he sets his jaw, frowning. And the night had been going so well, too.

Charlie Hesketh stops just inside the entrance to the Hufflepuff common room, glancing around at the merry students and decorations with a haughty air of disdain and superiority that immediately sets Eggsy on edge. It’s not that Charlie is a Slytherin - there are plenty of perfectly nice Slytherins that Eggsy’s had classes with and made friends with, some of whom are at the party already - but there’s something about his attitude that Eggsy can’t tolerate for longer than a few minutes. It’s amazing, now that Eggsy thinks on it, that he hasn’t run into trouble with Charlie yet this year despite the fact that they’re both in the double-long seventh year Defense Against the Dark Arts class. He grimaces, and tips his glass to empty the rest of the lukewarm butterbeer into his mouth. He hasn’t had a run-in with Charlie yet, and he has no intention of being noticed and goaded now - not in his own common room.

Charlie wrinkles his nose and turns to mutter something to one of the friends he’s never seen without - Rufus? Digby? Eggsy can never remember, they all sound like the names of yappy upper-class lapdogs - which causes the other Slytherin to laugh. Eggsy turns and eyes Jamal and Ryan, who have similar expressions of tense annoyance at the presence of the newly-arrived Slytherins.

Eggsy sighs, and nudges Jamal’s shoulder with his own. “C’mon,” he says, willing himself to relax, though the hairs on the back of his neck continue to stand on end like they’re attuned to the presence of Charlie and his goons. “Don’t worry about him, mate. Can’t very well do much to us here in Hufflepuff, eh?”

“Wouldn’t put it past him to try,” Ryan snorts, but with a smile and some prodding Eggsy’s able to get them back into the swing of their conversation.

Unfortunately, it only lasts about ten minutes.

“Unwin,” comes that sneering, condescendingly amused voice from behind him, loud enough to cause many of the groups of students surrounding them to turn and look. “Nice _party_.”

Eggsy rolls his eyes at Jamal and Ryan before he turns, schooling his expression to mild annoyance - no need to provide any more fodder for Charlie than necessary. “Hesketh,” he replies, meeting Charlie’s eyes and glancing to Digby and Rufus on either side of him. “Fashionably late, as always. How very Slytherin of you.”

Already there’s a murmuring ripple going through the crowd, barely audible over the music; the rivalry between Eggsy Unwin and Charlie Hesketh isn’t unknown to the other students - they’ve been at odds since their first year. The occasional bouts of slinging insults - and fists - has only gotten more explosive over the years.

“At least we’re fashionable - that’s more than we can say for you lot,” Charlie raises an eyebrow, flicking his eyes down to the school uniform and Hufflepuff tie that Eggsy’s wearing; it’s really no different from Charlie’s pants and tie and robe, really, so Eggsy just snorts and shakes his head.

“Have a canary cream,” Eggsy suggests with a grin, “It’ll only improve your looks.”

Charlie’s eyes flash and his lips twitches into a smirk. “That all you got, Unwin?”

“Enjoy the party, Charlie,” Eggsy says, taking a step backwards to go back to talking with his friends, desperately hoping that ending this exchange before it goes any further will save him from clobbering Charlie over the head with his glass mug. There’s a curling thread of adrenaline in the pit of his stomach already, his natural dislike for Charlie and his intuition - magical or not - sensing that if this goes any further, there is going to be a fight. But he can’t resist; the words are on his lips before he can quell the instinct to let them loose. “Merlin knows that you think it’s beneath you, but have a butterbeer and get that stick out of your arse and have a good time.” He gestures to the keg on the other side of the room, and then the dance floor - even Roxy and Sophie have stopped dancing to watch, now, and Eggsy feels himself begin to flush. “I’m sure Digby will assist you if you ask nicely. Now, if you excuse me-”

“Oi! We’re not finished here, Unwin-” Charlie protests, lip curling, grabbing at Eggsy’s elbow to spin him around again. Eggsy’s got enough butterbeer in him that he lets himself be pushed, narrowing his eyes at Charlie in the low light and spreading his arms, shrugging.

“We’re seventh years, Charlie,” he says, raising his shoulders again, “whatever it was, it’s not worth getting into a fight over at this point. Go have a pint, yeah?”

“Typical _Hufflepuffs_ ,” Charlie rolls his eyes, exaggerated and theatric, crossing his arms and raising his voice. He doesn't need to; there are already so many students paying attention to their exchange that the nearby Hufflepuffs hear the insult and frown at each other, shifting forward in the crowd towards Eggsy protectively. “Thinking more about food than anything else. Put your magic where your mouth is, Unwin, if you’re going to say something like that.”

“Fuck _off_ , Charlie,” Roxy snaps, pushing through the crowd of students to stand at Eggsy’s side, glancing between Eggsy and Charlie with a fierce frown. Her fists are balled at her sides and her cheeks flushed - and behind her Sophie watches, dark-eyed and not a little menacing.

“Not your fight, Rox,” Eggsy mutters, and she narrows her eyes at him shrewdly. She opens her mouth to reply - most likely to tell him off and insist that she’s got his back, like she always does when they find themselves in situations like this - when Charlie cuts her off before she can begin.

“Letting the girl stand up for you, Eggy? Can’t fight your own battles?” Charlie puts a hand on his hip, letting his robe fall to the side so it’s obvious that his fingers are resting on his wand-holster, a clear message that he has every intention of goading Eggsy to blows - or to a duel. Eggsy doesn’t want to rise to the bait, but he can feel his heart beginning to pound, face reddening not just from the beer but from annoyance. But it’s not worth it - students caught dueling get detention in addition to points lost from their house, and with so many people around it would be dangerous, not to mention that if the party is discovered by a professor-

Charlie’s mouth curls into a smirk, eyes flashing, when he doesn’t respond right away. Eggsy clenches his fist tighter around his empty glass until his knuckles turn white, lips pursed angrily.

“What, not gonna take out your wand and defend yourself? Show off some of that _martial magic_ you’re supposed to be good at? Or are you like your mum, born a wizard but no better than a sq-”

“Don’t you dare bring my mum into this,” Eggsy hisses, jaw snapping shut as he bites out the words and then kicks himself mentally at how Charlie’s grin widens, mischievous delight in his eyes at being able to get Eggsy to finally respond. The urge to punch the look off his face only grows in the back of Eggsy’s mind, and in combination with the butterbeer he’s already consumed, it’s not a difficult decision to make. “Fine. You really want a fight that bad? Let’s take it outside. No need to disturb the rest of them from having a good time.”

Eggsy tilts his head in the direction of the rest of the party and the crowd around them, which has grown strangely quite, now buzzing again with voices murmuring about the prospect of a fight.

“And not a duel,” Eggsy continues, before Charlie can come up with a witty retort or yet another uninspired insult, “a _fight_. I’m going to enjoy putting my first into that upturned nose of yours.”

Roxy makes a quiet noise of complaint in the back of her throat, but Sophie wraps a hand around her arm before she can move forward to follow Eggsy - which Eggsy is strangely grateful for. There’s no need for her to get involved or get in trouble; this argument with Charlie is his, for whatever reason Charlie continues to bait and want to fight him, and as far as Eggsy is concerned everyone should be enjoying their Halloween.

“Try to make sure that nobody follows,” Eggsy mutters to Jamal as he watches Charlie send him another smug, snobbish smirk before turning on his heel and heading for the door out of the Hufflepuff common room, Digby and Rufus following behind him like loyal, robe-clad watchdogs. “Don’t want anyone else getting hurt or in trouble - and if there’s any chance that a professor could find out about the party, make sure everyone knows to break it up before anyone’s caught out during quiet hours.”

“More than half the Prefects are here, anyways,” Jamal reminds him with a wan smile, and Eggsy gives him a curt nod and a clap on the shoulder. “But yeah - we’ll make sure there’s no trouble back here. Put one in his face for me, yeah?”

“Right after I punch him for me,” Eggsy winks, more confident than he feels, and turns to follow Charlie out into the hallway. The Hufflepuffs, quick to follow direction and diffuse the situation, are already guiding people back to the dance floor and tables of snacks, sending worried glances over their shoulders at Eggsy as he exits. Hopefully, Eggsy thinks, it’ll only take a quick bop on the face to subdue Charlie into returning to the Slytherin dungeons with his tail between his legs, and he can return to the party whole and unharmed.

Eggsy’s been in fights before - hell, he’s _started_ fights before - but his stomach is still beginning to churn with nerves when Charlie finally stops in a little windowed alcove, off to one side of the hallway further down from the kitchens. It’s a part of the castle rarely visited by anyone besides the Hufflepuffs and Slytherins, and even then it only sees traffic during the day when the students are passing between classes, or visiting each others’ common rooms for study sessions. Now, in the flickering light from the sconces and the hazy, blue-white light from the full moon, there isn’t a soul to be seen besides the four of them.

There’s a niggling voice in the back of Eggsy’s mind reminding him of what a bad idea this is - rising to Charlie’s insults and letting him get underneath his skin again. He’s not _afraid_ of Charlie, but the Slytherin still has a few inches on him and Merlin knows what kinds of dirty tricks up his sleeve. Still: this is better than having an all-out brawl in the common room, where any more of a ruckus could get them caught, or worse - where someone could get seriously hurt from a wayward spell or missed punch.

Eggsy doesn’t plan to miss.

With a wave and a haughty smile, Charlie urges his friends to step away, leaving Eggsy and Charlie plenty of space to have it out. He strips out out of his robe after a moment, tossing it behind him haphazardly to Digby, and rolling up his sleeves. Every show of snobbish bravado wears at Eggsy’s patience, stokes the fire in the part of him that leaps before looking, that jumps with both feet - the Gryffindor part, Roxy would say if she were here. Eggsy sets his jaw and squeezes his hands into fists and releases, watching Charlie with sharp eyes as they start to circle each other, pacing the little alcove with soft, scuffing footsteps.

“Your move, Unwin,” Charlie murmurs, raising an eyebrow and beckoning Eggsy with both hands, “Not gonna back down now, are you? Hufflepuffs don’t like to fight, could say the same about pooft-”

Eggsy’s fist connects before Charlie can finish his sentence and he staggers, cradling his jaw and narrowing his eyes at Eggsy. A thin trickle of blood escapes his lip where it’s split, and Charlie licks it away, a sharp glint in his eyes, now.

“Hit a nerve, did I?” he sneers.

“Hit a _dick_ , did I?” Eggsy mutters, squaring his shoulders as Charlie darts forward and punches out, aiming for Eggsy’s face. He doesn’t quite make it; Eggsy is quick enough on his feet and shorter enough that he can duck away, wheeling to the side so that Charlie’s momentum carries him too far and he misses, off-balance. But he recovers quickly, pivots to make an abrupt about-face and lands a glancing blow on Eggsy’s shoulder; he always was annoyingly quick, Eggsy thinks, both on and off the Quidditch pitch.

But Eggsy’s a beater; he’s taken far more than that in a Quidditch game, and though he’s starting to breathe harder he rolls his shoulders back, cracks his knuckles with a calm intensity. When Charlie comes at him again, it’s not hard to weave a little to the side and counter his punch with one of his own, hitting Charlie square in the chest. It stuns Charlie, but only for a moment - he bares his teeth and grabs Eggsy’s fist before he can step away again, locking his hand around Eggsy’s wrist and twisting, sharp and hard. Eggsy can’t squirm away and he gasps at the bright blossom of pain as Charlie jerks his arm. There’s an awful scraping sensation as the bones in his wrist press together under Charlie’s grip, and he uses the opportunity to back Eggsy into the alcove wall, wrenching Eggsy’s arm around behind him at the last moment so he’s face-first in the cool, musty stones.

Charlie leans his weight on Eggsy, bearing down on his shoulder and the arm that’s bent behind him; Eggsy grunts at the increased pain, the rough coldness of the wall against his cheek. Charlie’s breathing hot puffs of air in his ear and he wrinkles his nose, tries to push back and dislodge Charlie, but the Slytherin’s height and the twist of his arm keeps him pinned in place.

“See, Unwin?” Charlie pants, the smug smirk audible in his voice, in his patronizing tone, “Try all you like, but you’re only going to ever talk to the talk - you’re never going to be able to play with the big boys, you’ll never become an _Auror_ like your dad. You’re only going to get a good mark in _Defense_ because you suck up to Professor Hart.”

Eggsy snarls, trying to push out of Charlie’s grip and muscle away, using the breadth of his shoulders to turn himself, but it’s to no avail. Charlie chuckles, shoving him further so that he’s up on his toes to keep his balance against the wall, grunting as his bones grind together again.

“What did you do, eh? To get on his good side?” Charlie grunts as Eggsy manages to elbow him in the stomach, but it doesn’t stop the relentless press of his weight against Eggsy’s back, the sting of his fingers as they press bruises into his skin. “More than you did for me, eh? Suck him off? Bend over his de-”

“ _Expelliarmus_!”

There’s a shout echoing from down the hall, and before either of them can react Charlie’s hit with the brunt of the spell; without his wand in hand, the spell knocks Charlie himself backwards and into the opposite wall of the alcove, away from Eggsy. He stumbles, managing to stay on his feet but stunned, blinking in surprise.

Eggsy collapses into the wall, resting his head against it as he breathes hard, arm finally free from Charlie’s grip. It still hurts and he turns after a moment, leaning with his back against the wall and cradling his arm against him, examining his wrist - and the ring of bruises which are already beginning to form on his skin. His cheek is tender, too, from where he was first slammed into the wall - it’s hot to the touch, when Eggsy gently feels around the arch of his cheek bone, and his fingers come away damp and red.

“Twenty points from Slytherin, Mr Hesketh,” the approaching figure says, tucking a wand out of sight as he steps forward into the little alcove, into the circle of moonlight streaming in from the window. “Do you need to go to the hospital wing, Mr- _Eggsy_?”

Eggsy blinks and looks up from examining the swollen pink of his knuckles.

It’s Professor Hart - looking down at him with concern in his warm eyes, flicking down from the scrape on Eggsy’s face to the mottled purple and red around his wrist. Eggsy’s not sure how he didn’t recognize the sound of his voice before, perhaps the beer was more disorienting than he’d thought - but in an instant the professor’s eyes shift from wary but warm to hot with anger, and he turns to Charlie with a sharp frown on his face.

“Another fight, Mr Hesketh? I know you and Mr Unwin have a history of not getting along, but targeting him this late at night, on _Halloween_ -”

“He hit me, too!” Charlie interrupts, gesturing to his split lip, already scabbing but still oozing blood. With his clothes rumpled and hair out of place from their fight he looks far worse than Eggsy does - or at least Eggsy thinks so; he can’t see the state of his own face. He flexes his hand, wincing at the sting of his knuckles and the raw, bone-deep soreness in his arm, and sets his jaw when Professor Hart turns to him again. Eggsy doesn’t deny punching Charlie - it would be a lie to do so, even if it wasn’t obvious - but he meets Professor Hart’s eyes, steady and unblinking.

Professor Hart holds his gaze, silent and assessing, and whatever he sees in Eggsy’s face must pass some kind of muster, because he turns back to Charlie with his eyebrows pinching into a frown. The heat in his eyes hasn’t died, but his voice is controlled and calm when he addresses Charlie.

“If that’s true, then he’ll also have points taken from his house - after a quick trip to the hospital wing.”

“It’s really not that bad,” Eggsy says quietly, and Professor Hart gives him a stern look over his shoulder before facing the Slytherin again. He purses his lips, as if thinking for a moment, and then points at Charlie, motioning down the dim corridor in the direction of the Slytherin dormitories.

“Return to Slytherin; I’ll see to it that the Headmaster knows to speak to you on Monday morning, where he’ll assign your detention,” Professor Hart says, holding up his hand when Charlie begins to loudly protest, “-and Mr Unwin will be receiving detention as well, for both being out during quiet hours and for getting into a fight with another student. Now, Mr Hesketh, if you would?”

Charlie pushes away from the wall with his lips curled, eyes flashing with anger in the blue-white light of the moon. “I hope this isn’t favoritism, Professor. You know that my father is on the board of Governors.”

Professor Hart’s eyebrows raise, and Eggsy sees his hand curl into a fist where he’s got them clasped behind his back.

“This is two seventh years - who should know better, mind you - receiving due punishments for their actions,” he states calmly, and Eggsy watches with a feeling of dread anticipation as Charlie steps forward, swiping his discarded robe off the floor and laying it over his arm. He straightens and takes another step forwards Professor Hart - who still has a few inches on Charlie, despite the puffed-up bravado that Charlie’s exuding - and narrows his eyes.

“He did get to you, then, didn’t he?” Charlie snarls, “Dirty _Hufflepuff_ as he is, did he get you off, too? Willing to do anything for-”

Eggsy doesn’t see Professor Hart move, but there’s a concussive _push_ of magic that sends Charlie sprawling to the stone floor, the windows behind him shaking in their frames like from a sudden gust of wind. Charlie blinks, momentarily stunned, and scrambles to his feet inelegantly, tripping over the length of the robe in his arms and wiping at the oozing blood from his lip, which had split open again at the impact.

“The Headmaster _will_ hear about this from the Board of Governors,” Charlie spits, walking backwards a few steps but keeping his beady eyes trained on Professor Hart, and behind him, Eggsy.

“They most certainly will,” Professor Hart says coolly. “Starting fights is one thing - a serious thing - but sexual harassment of another student and threatening a member of the staff are quite something else. Return to Slytherin, Mr Hesketh. You’ll be contacted by the Headmaster tomorrow.”

Blessedly, Charlie turns on his heel and retreats down the long corridor without so much as a backwards glance or scathing comment, and Eggsy sags against the wall, suddenly exhausted. Whatever buzz of alcohol had been in his veins when he’d agreed to the fight is long gone, between the adrenaline of dodging Charlie’s punches and the arrival of Professor Hart, and the heavy sinking of his stomach as Charlie had said -

“Are you all right?”

Eggsy looks up at Professor Hart, whose concern is quite clearly genuine - as is the underlying anger boiling underneath his veneer of collected calm. It’s a little startling, to see him to upset on Eggsy’s behalf; it’s nothing Charlie hasn’t said before to him, though there’s no use telling Professor Hart that. He takes a step closer to Eggsy, clearly telegraphing his intent as he reaches out and gently takes Eggsy’s wrist, pulling it closer so he can see the bruises in the dim light.

Just one step closer to Professor Hart than he was before, and Eggsy can feel the warmth of his body - not just from the contact at his wrist, but radiating from the Professor in the otherwise cool air of the basement hallway. He turns Eggsy’s wrist this way and that, examining the ring of darkening marks on Eggsy’s skin, eyes assessing and a frown in place. There are soft lines where his eyebrows draw together, and at the corner of his mouth where it’s pulled into a moue of displeasure, and Eggsy focuses on that rather than the way Professor Hart’s finger skate across his skin, or the fierce, protective firmness in his brown eyes.

When he gets to Eggsy’s knuckles and sees the puffy pink of them, the scuffs of abrasion, he looks up and pointedly raises an eyebrows.

“I _did_ get a few good hits on him,” Eggsy half-shrugs, lips twitching up into a small smile. Professor Hart returns the smile, briefly, before his frown settles back in place; but he straightens, passing his thumb over Eggsy’s knuckles in a way that shouldn’t send a shiver down Eggsy’s spine, but does.

“Do you need the hospital wing?” he asks, “I was serious about escorting you there, if necessary.”

Eggsy shakes his head, giving the professor a wry smile, “’S nothing a little _Beater’s Bruise-B-Gone_ can’t take care of, and I’ve got plenty of it in my trunk still.”

“Good, good. Well, it is after curfew, so if you would-” Professor Hart holds an arm out, gesturing in the direction of Hufflepuff - apparently he’s going to get walked through the castle after all, Eggsy thinks. But he shoots a grin at Professor Hart, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his trousers and falling into step besides Professor Hart.

There’s a strange eeriness about this - walking down the corridor in the middle of the night, side by side, like in a dream. The castle is cool and quiet, and for the two of them - who usually have so much to say to each other - the lapse in conversation is doubly strange. Eggsy’s stomach flips every time the long edges of their robes brush, unsure if he’s imagining the faint graze of Professor Hart’s hand against his own through the layers of dark twill.

Eggsy lets out a long exhale, staring at the ceiling as he bites his lip, thinking. It shouldn’t be this hard to break the silence.

“I’m going to have to have a long chat with Merlin tomorrow, ain’t I?” he asks, resigned. And he’d gotten all the way to the end of October without getting in trouble, too. At least Roxy wouldn’t be joining him - though telling her about what happened and the fact he has detention is going to be as bad as speaking with the Headmaster. Between the two of them, he’s going to get his ears talked off.

Professor Hart makes a face, grimacing, and Eggsy can’t help but grin at the pained resignation on his face, too. “Not nearly as long as the one I’ll be having with him, I’m sure,” he replies, and they lapse into comfortable silence again, only the sound of their clicking shoes echoing down the corridor.

Eggsy almost starts when Professor Hart clears his throat, turning to meet his eyes again with raised eyebrows.

“About - what Charlie said,” Professor Hart asks haltingly, eyebrows drawn together in a frown again and expression stormy, despite how oddly uncomfortable he sounds for a professor so usually poised and well-spoken. “It’s not really my place to ask, but - between the two of you, he never-”

“No,” Eggsy cuts him off hastily, before that sentence can go any farther. He wrinkles his nose in distaste, shaking his head. “No, God, I don’t know what you’re thinking, but it ain’t - it ain’t that.”

Professor Hart purses his lips, looking pained but staunchly firm and no small amount angry, though it’s muted now that he’s seen that Eggsy is fine. “So anything that happened between you-”

“Was consensual,” Eggsy manages to say, far calmer than he feels. It’s not the chill, now, that’s causing his cheeks to flush - Merlin, he’d never expected to say that word in front of Professor Hart. Or, at least - not in such a context, a hopeful part of his brain reminds him. “A bad decision, maybe - _definitely_ \- but it was consensual. And last year, besides.”

Professor Hart clears his throat again and says, “I see.” For the first time in recent memory, Eggsy can’t get a read on his reaction. They spend the rest of the short walk to the entrance to the Hufflepuff dorm in awkward silence, Eggsy sneaking glances at Professor Hart’s inscrutable profile.

He scuffs his feet when they slow to a stop in front of the barrels that hide the entrance to Hufflepuff, and belatedly Eggsy remembers that just beyond there’s still a party, the Hufflepuff common room full of sixth and seventh years and kegs of butterbeer and loud music. He swallows, glancing up at Professor Hart and giving him a smile he hopes is both winning and convincing.

“You did it again, you know,” is what comes out of his mouth, and Professor Hart blinks, looking as surprised as Eggsy feels.

“I beg your pardon?” he asks, linking his hands behind his back and raising an eyebrow at Eggsy.

Eggsy sends him a small smile, “More wandless, nonverbal magic. Though I suppose I should be thanking you for knocking Charlie on his arse. So - thank you,” he adds, when Professor Hart cracks a small smile and looks at him expectantly.

“You’re welcome, Eggsy,” he replies, lips pursing despite the amusement glittering in his eyes. “While I’m gratified that I was able to prevent you from getting your arm broken, I won’t be able to save you from getting detention.”

“I expected as much,” Eggsy admits, and shrugs, “S’all right. I can take it with you, yeah?”

“You already assist me with grading; it wouldn’t be much of a punishment to assign that to you,” Professor Hart points out, and Eggsy deflates a little. So much for an easy punishment - it wasn’t like he started the fight, anyways. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks, Professor,” Eggsy grins, “Really.”

“Put some of that _Bruise-B-Gone_ on your wrist before you go to bed,” he advises, turning to go but looking over his shoulder at Eggsy before he turns the corner. “Oh, but Eggsy?”

“Yeah?” Eggsy pauses, hand raised to give the secret knock on the barrel to enter the common room.

“Make sure the party has wrapped up by one o’clock tonight; that’s when Fletcher will be doing his caretaker rounds.” Professor Hart grins, eyes bright as he takes in the gobsmacked expression on Eggsy’s face. “Have a good evening!”

Eggsy lets out a breath when he disappears around the corner, footsteps fading as he walks away, and shakes his head ruefully. There must be something more than magic in the air, this Halloween.

Roxy is _not_ going to believe any of what just happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more Kingsman and Hartwin-variety writing and art, join me in Hartwin trash hell and follow me on [tumblr!](http://venvephe.tumblr.com/)
> 
> See you in December! <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eggsy certainly is full of surprises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a very successful NaNoWriMo this year; although I didn't update during that month, I wrote another 50,000 words of this fic (yes, _really_ and it's very close to the finish line! I'll try to have a consistent schedule for updating the story with the next few chapters, which is something both you and I will enjoy! I'm quite proud to have written so much, and I hope you like the story as much as I have liked writing it.
> 
> For now - here's the next chapter! Hopefully I'll be able to post the next one in December, too - this chapter isn't everything I want to post, and the next one contains the Yule Ball and other Christmas festivities. As always, my love to everyone who has shown me support for this story. I appreciate every single comment and kudos I receive! And I can't go without mentioning my dear DivineProjectZero; without her, this story wouldn't exist and I wouldn't still be writing it. 
> 
> Enjoy!

November progresses in a flurry of fallen leaves, the Scottish wind turning colder and the the Hogwarts classes harder. Harry can’t help but be inordinately pleased with how well his students are keeping up with the Defense curriculum; even with the distraction of Hogwarts life, all of his classes are in good positions for their end-of-semester exams, and have been showing growth in their practical knowledge and hands-on magical skills as well.

The first Quidditch match of the year is a week and a half after the Halloween feast and festivities; it’s Gryffindor versus Slytherin, as it always is in the infamous rivalry match-up, and Harry attends in his Gryffindor scarf and cheers as loud as anyone throughout the entire game. It’s a close match, both of the seekers circling high above and meeting each other dive for dive when the snitch is spotted, and the quaffle in play is in constant motion between the two teams.

Gryffindor wins, of course; Harry takes delight in sending smug looks in Professor Lance’s direction, and for days Hogwarts is filled to bursting with talk about the match and the potential outcome of the Inter-House Quidditch Cup.

But it isn’t until a few days before the next game - the highly-anticipated match between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff mid-November - that Harry realizes he’s scheduled Eggsy’s detention for the night before. Eggsy hadn’t protested weeks earlier, when Harry had set the date, and now that it’s upon him there’s really not much to be done about it.

“’S fine,” Eggsy says, when Harry asks to see him at the end of their Wednesday class session to remind him about his detention - and to bring up the potential conflict. Charlie glowers at the two of them as he slinks out of the classroom, Harry notices, and he pushes away the surge of annoyance at the look Charlie sends Eggsy. “Probably won’t sleep very well that night anyways, worrying about the game.”

“If you’re sure,” Harry replies, gathering up the stack of essays on basic warding techniques that the class had just turned in, tapping them on the edge of the desk to straighten them before he tucks them into his bag. “I know everyone is looking forward to the game - and it’s Hufflepuff’s first game of the year, the team you’re captaining.”

“I ain’t worried,” Eggsy grins at him, all bright smiles and sunny confidence. “That’s what practice is for, yeah? Just have me back before midnight so my carriage don’t turn into a pumpkin and I’ll be right as rain in the morning.”

Harry can’t help but smile at that, shaking his head at Eggsy’s reference as the seventh year give him a jaunty salute and promises to see him the following evening, heading to the Great Hall for dinner and leaving Harry with his thoughts.

There’s something about Eggsy Unwin.

Harry knows that he shouldn’t be so concerned with the personal life of one of his students; as it is, he and Eggsy are unusually close. It had happened naturally, between the favor he’d done in giving Eggsy the medal for his sister’s protection, and then the friendship they’d forged over the past few months as Eggsy time and time again found his way to Harry’s office in the afternoons. And Harry can’t bring himself to regret it in the slightest - Eggsy is bright, driven, endlessly curious and sharply funny, despite his predilection for getting into trouble. He can be as Gryffindor as he is Hufflepuff, Harry thinks with a smile, between his limitless loyalty and determination in defending what he holds dear - his family, his friends. 

Still: the hot course of anger through his veins when he had discovered Charlie pinning Eggsy to the wall, his arm wrenched around painfully and held there by the weight of Charlie’s body - and the sexually-charged insults as to Eggsy’s character, let alone the accusations he’d levered at Harry, a _professor_ \- the ferocity with which Harry’s anger had welled up surprised him, even now. Harry closes the door to the empty classroom behind him and stuffs his hands in his pockets before he can ball them into fists, turning to make a beeline for his office.

It’s more than possible that, over the course of spending time together and getting to know Eggsy, their relationship has grown somewhere beyond _professor_ and _student_ and into the realm of genuine friendship. There isn’t anything wrong with that, Harry’s quick to reassure himself, but the crackle of magic down his spine and fingertips at hearing Charlie spit such things at Eggsy was more than a surprise. He’d been angry _for_ Eggsy, that he’d had those words hurled at him, so venomous and scathing, but it’s more than that. He doesn’t want to find a name for the hot ooze of emotion that Charlie’s words had started, the accusations that had caused Harry to react on instinct, nonverbally, _magically_ without even realizing what he was doing.

Harry most definitely doesn’t think about _Eggsy and Charlie_ , or _it was consensual_ , or _dirty Hufflepuff, willing to do anything_ -

It’s possible that he slams his office door closed harder than he really needs to, but there’s no one around to hear it.

 

 

There’s a knock on his office door at precisely seven o’clock Thursday evening, and Harry sets down his quill as he calls for Eggsy to enter - because it is Eggsy, perfectly on time and dressed for the cold weather, gloves in hand.

“I see you’ve prepared appropriately,” Harry says, standing from his desk and brushing out his robes, holstering his wand at his side. “It looks to be a cold evening, so I hope you’re wearing layers.”

Eggsy smiles, gesturing to his yellow scarf and flapping his gloves back and forth, “Prepared is a Hufflepuff’s middle name.”

Harry raises his eyebrows at that, and Eggsy laughs as Harry comes around the other side of the desk and reaches for his own scarf on the coat-stand by the door of his office.

“Nah, when you said to dress for the cold I had a pretty good idea of what my punishment was going to be,” Eggsy grins, “Or, at least, that we would be doing something outside.”

“Indeed,” Harry knots the scarf snugly around his neck and fishes in his own pockets for his dragon-hide gloves - they aren’t particularly warm, but the protection they offer is exactly what is needed for the task ahead. “You’ve guessed correctly - tonight, we’re going into the Forbidden Forest.”

Watching the expression on Eggsy’s face morph from surprise to wary delight is worth the extra effort of keeping the surprise from him; Harry had confirmed with Merlin what Eggsy’s detention task would be only two days before, and Eggsy had already been hounding him for details. Setting out into the Forbidden Forest as a detention assignment was even rarer than assisting Merlin with cleaning the Headmaster’s office - and probably just as dangerous.

“Fuc- that’s _brilliant_ ,” Eggsy replies, visibly trying to tamp down on his grin.

“Don’t get too excited,” Harry tells him, opening the door for Eggsy to exit the office first and then closing the door behind them and leading the way down the sconce-lit hallway. “We do have an arduous task to perform, one deemed appropriate punishment for your misdemeanor on Halloween.”

“What are we going to be doing in the Forbidden Forest, anyways? It’s Forbidden with a capital F for a reason,” Eggsy tugs on his gloves and looks up at Harry expectantly, eyes glittering curiously in the candlelight.

“Halloween was the full moon, as you well remember - tonight is the new moon, and as such the only night in November that the _Sepharia Lunatia_ is in bloom.”

“The Black Moon Blossom?” Eggsy raises his eyebrows, “Black and purple petals, lots of lovely little thorns?”

“You remember your Herbology well,” Harry nods, smiling, “and I did tell you to bring gloves. Professor Lance needs them for some potions he’s brewing, and tonight is the only time they can be collected while blossoming before he needs them.”

“We’re going to the Forbidden Forest, on the new moon, to _pick flowers_ ,” Eggsy clarifies, caught between frowning at the tedium and lack of adventure promised in such a task, and grinning at how ridiculous it sounds.

“Not to worry,” Harry says cheerfully, ushering Eggsy through the large doors of the Great Hall and out into the crisp night air, nodding to Fletcher as the caretaker closes the heavy doors behind them. “Headmaster Merlin assured me that it’s far more onerous of a task than it sounds.”

Eggsy groans.

Harry lights the tip of his wand as they make their way down the gently sloping hillside, away from the castle and towards the fringes of the Forbidden Forest. Eggsy follows suit, and in the little circles of light from their wand-tips, the cold, frost-covered grass underfoot looks glazed with icy sugar. Their quietly crunching footsteps are muffled, nearly silent in the night air - in fact, the forest itself is eerily quiet as they approach, long fingers of shivery, misty fog reaching out from the dark trees and towards the tamer grass surrounding the castle. It feels unnaturally dark, because of the lack of the moon and its light - though the stars are all the brighter as a result. The astronomy students are probably up in the tower working feverishly on their charts, Harry thinks idly.

There’s a faint path leading down to the Forbidden Forest, a barely-there trail of dirt that leads to the mouth of the dense woods; only professors ever enter its dark tangle of trees, and even then not very often. Merlin had hesitated to assign Eggsy - and Harry - the task of gathering the Black Moon Blossoms, but was swayed when Harry had insisted that there as no one safer to venture into the forest with than the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. There hadn’t been an instance of students wandering to the forest and getting hurt in years, though Harry knows better than to let that fact lull him into a false sense of security. The Forbidden Forest is still _forbidden_ for many a good and dangerous reason.

“Where are these Black Moon Blossoms supposed to be?” Eggsy asks, his breath a silver mist in the chill of the night air. He holds his wand between his teeth as he tugs on his gloves, rubbing his palms together to warm them up before taking his wand in hand again. Harry hums thoughtfully, keeping his wand pointed downward at the rough ground as they approach the dark tree-line.

“There’s a clearing that receives enough moonlight for them to grow not too far from here,” Harry say, stopping when he reaches the first of the thick, black-barked trees that mark the edge of the forest. “Professor Lance assured me that it’s not so far as to enter the centaurs’ territory, and that there should be enough of the blossoms in bloom tonight for him to use in his potion-making.”

The bright curiosity Harry’s come to know so well lights up Eggsy’s face at the mention of _centaurs_ , but Harry turns to him, his back to the forest, before Eggsy can respond.

“I don’t think you need to be told,” Harry says, calm but firm, “but it bears repeating - the Forbidden Forest is dangerous in many ways, and ensuring that both of us return both whole and alive means that we stick together and don’t get lost. Merlin only approved because you’re a seventh year in seventh year Defense; this is still your detention, and we’re not going to take any unnecessary risks.”

Eggsy smiles, the upturned corners of his mouth just visible over the edge his scarf. “Got it. Wouldn’t want to tarnish your reputation and classroom track record for fewest injuries by getting us hurt, eh?”

Harry snorts, turning towards the forest and beckoning Eggsy to follow him. “Unfortunately Melinda Fairweather - one of my third year students - didn’t complete the reading on Hinkypunks last week, and went to the hospital wing for some mild burns. Thankfully, I believe Madame Leith was able to re-grow some of her singed hair.”

Eggsy chuckles behind him, and a thick quiet descends around them as they enter the Forbidden Forest.

It isn’t long before they’ve left the dark hillside and the faraway, glowing windows of the Hogwarts castle behind them. Their wands make bright halos of light around them in the misty air, their feet disturbing the carpet of dense fog that blankets the forest floor. It makes following the twisting little path difficult; the knotted, gnarled roots underfoot and loose rocks make for tenuous footing, even for the most careful of wizards, and they press forward slowly.

The Forbidden Forest doesn’t sound like any other forest Harry’s been to, magical or not; there’s a strange hush broken only by the occasional snap of a twig or the rustle of branches overhead, or the warning hoot of a wild owl. Once in a while something small and fast runs across the path ahead of them, creating swirling eddies in the fog, but it’s always long gone before they can get a proper glimpse of it. They don’t speak for some time, and Harry’s heart sounds loud in his own ears - steady but alert, ears sharp and his nerves on edge just in case.

“Are there really a herd of unicorns that live in the Forest?” Eggsy asks in a soft murmur. His wand-light bobs as he puts a hand on a low-lying branch, ducking underneath it and catching up to Harry in a few careful strides. “Don’t seem like anything so big could move around with all the trees.”

“I’m told there are parts of it that are less dense,” Harry replies, scanning his wand back and forth to illuminate the trunks of the nearby trees, continuing through a narrow gap in the brush ahead - there’s barely a path to follow, only a slight wear in the plants underfoot that indicate where to go. “A colony of acromantula, too, though they aren’t often seen. And thestrals, of course.”

“I know they’re harmless to students, but I still wouldn’t want to come across one out here,” Eggsy says, and when Harry glances back at him, he gives Harry a muted smile, rubbing one of his arms with a gloved hand, not quite shivering.

“I did see a unicorn here, once,” he says, a little while later. It’s almost useless to try and follow the path, now, so Harry casts a quick compass-charm to ensure that they’re heading due east, towards the clearing. “Back when I was a student,” he clarifies, when Eggsy gives him a wide-eyed look, and Eggsy’s eyebrows raise towards his hairline.

“You went into the Forbidden Forest as a student?”

“Detention,” Harry smirks, enjoying the incredulity on Eggsy’s face. “I’m a Gryffindor, Eggsy; surely you know by now that you and I are quite similar in personality. It shouldn’t be a surprise that I got up to - _activities of questionable judgment_ when I was a student, as well.”

Eggsy’s lips quirk up to matches his own, and he shakes his head as if disbelieving. “And you saw a unicorn while on detention?”

“I’m sure we won’t get so lucky tonight,” Harry says, flicking his wand to clear an enormous cobweb away so that they can slide underneath another knotted branch. “I’ll tell you the story some afternoon when there isn’t so much grading to be done.”

“Unicorns,” Eggsy sighs, glancing around the forest and squinting into the darkness of the thick trees. “Now that would be a sight. Is there anything magical that _doesn’t_ live in the Forbidden Forest?”

“Remind me sometime to tell you about the legend of the Ford Anglia,” Harry chuckles. 

He steps around a half-fallen, vine-covered tree dotted with pearly, luminescent mushrooms, the hem of his dark robe dragging across the warty bark at the base. The trees have been getting progressively stranger, more knotted and twisted, _wilder_. Even if there had been a moon tonight, little of its light would have made it to the forest floor - as it is, Harry can barely see the glittering stars above through the dense knit of branches and the thick canopy of evergreen pines.

Just as suddenly as the forest began, it stops - and Harry and Eggsy emerge from the thick of the wood into a little clearing. It’s nowhere near the size of a Quidditch pitch - perhaps as wide as thirty paces across, though not perfectly round - but the trees give way to knee-high grasses and flowers, a hidden meadow protected by the forest that surrounds it. There are a few large rock studding the meadow, glittering with mica in the reflected light from their wands, microscopic prisms that cast pinpricks of light on the surrounding green. A gentle breeze makes the grasses flutter back and forth in a rhythmic sway, in time with the faint rustle of the leaves on the nearby trees. There’s a willow at one end of the meadow; its long tendrils catch the air in a lazy dance, tangling together and coming apart like an ever-moving sheet, a wave of deep green and speckles of small, white flowers.

And there, dotted amongst the dark, thick grass at the center of the meadow, where the canopy of tree branches can’t reach, are the Black Moon Blossoms. They’re beautiful, their palm-sized blooms open to the stars above - indeed, as they are named, only blooming on the new moon when the stars are more visible than ever.  As he draws closer, Harry can smell their faint scent, something like myrrh and lavender and tea leaves.

“Wow,” Eggsy says softly, spinning slowly in place to look up at the sky overhead; it’s so dark this far north, and in the Forbidden Forest, that the dense band of the Milky Way is visible high above them with barely a cloud in sight. The light from his wand catches the underside of his chin and his eyelashes as he stares up in wonder, his breath coming out in a fine cloud in the cool air. “Makes me wish I paid more attention in Astronomy.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” Harry says with a wry smile, and Eggsy grins back at him.

“Don’t take it now anyways - my schedule’s full as it is, with all my NEWT-level classes,” Eggsy shrugs one shoulder, and then looks up at the sky again, “’s just beautiful, is all.”

“It is indeed,” Harry murmurs, and pulls his eyes away from Eggsy’s gold-lit eyelashes to look up at the sky, too.

They’re quiet for a moment as they bend their heads skyward, the only noise coming from their soft exhales and the whispering of the leaves as they rustle in the breeze. Eggsy breathes in a deep inhale, shaking his head as if to clear his mind before turning back to Harry. “Ready to begin, Professor Hart?”

Harry hums in agreement, shifting his wand from one hand to the other so he can tug his gloves more firmly into place with his teeth - assured protection against the numbing, stinging thorns of the Black Moon Blossoms. Each of the flowers’ heads are perched on a long, spiny stem and tangled with weedy vines covered in barbs; gloves are more than necessary for their picking. He reminds Eggsy so, and the Hufflepuff waves his dragonhide-gloved hands at Harry, ready to go. With a softly muttered spell, the ball of light at the tip of Harry’s wand detaches itself from the wood to hover in the air next to him, following him as he moves further into the clearing - so that he can focus on the task of gathering the flowers and still see in the soft aura of light. Armed with twin pairs of herbologist’s shears from Harry’s bag, the two of them settle in to do the tenuous, dirty work they came here to do.

The Black Moon Blossoms look much like the sky above - dark purple petals, mottled with lighter purples and blues towards the center, a starburst of white and yellow at the apex where the petals come together. Three long, pollen-dusted stamen twitch at the center of each bloom, delicate and fragrant to attract all manner of night-time moths and other creatures. Their scent is even stronger up close, the myrrh deepening to something like musk. It’s a little heady, understandably attractive to the fauna of the forest - not to mention the appeal of the soft, silvery glow that emanates from each petal, peppered with tiny white speckles through the bands of deep purple.

Harry bends to snip a few of the fragrant flowers; they don't stop glowing even once he's severed their stems, illuminating his gloved hands in the darkness. Nearby Eggsy does the same, the golden halo of the flowers' light softening the sharp angle of his jaw, turning his hair a rich gold-bronze.

They've almost gathered all that they need for the potion, handful-bouquets of the blooms, when there's the snap of a broken branch at the other end of the grassy clearing. Harry's heart leaps at the sound, and he turns quickly towards the source of it, peering into the foggy silhouettes of the trees and dense underbrush. Eggsy shifts, out of the corner of his eye, glancing between where Harry's standing stock-still with his small shears and handful of flowers, and the shivery mist where the trees begin again across the meadow. 

Harry slowly pulls himself to standing upright, tucking the shears away in an inner pocket so that he can reach for his wand in its holster instead. The dense thicket of bushes at the tree-line rustle faintly, leaves quivering in the muted darkness. Eggsy slides his own wand out of his pocket, tucking closer towards Harry's side and behind him. His instincts are good, at least, Harry muses - that, or his lessons are taking root. Merlin would be gratified to know that in the face of trouble Eggsy doesn't always rush in head-first. 

Another branch snaps, and a heavy snort makes the underbrush tremor; Harry's attention instantly shifts back to the presence on the other side of the clearing.

It's the new moon in the Forbidden Forest; there's no saying what manner of creature could be only a stone's throw away.

"Professor," Eggsy whispers, hushed, and Harry reaches a hand behind him, gestures as best he can with a fist full of flowers for Eggsy to keep quiet.

Twigs crunch again, and then there's a larger crackle of snaps as a branch bends, accompanied by the sound of heavy footfalls and the hiss of leaves dragging across something large, as it - whatever it is - plods closer to them. There’s a strange cadence to the footfalls, a loping rhythm that Harry hasn’t heard before and can’t quite place and that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

Tension coils tighter in Harry's stomach as a silhouette emerges from the trees; it comes closer with every heavy step, snorting and snapping branches underfoot. It's still across the clearing - quite a few meters away - but Harry can tell that it's more than a head taller than he is, a hulking shadow barely illuminated by the starlight.

" _Lumos_ ," Harry murmurs, sending a wispy ball of white light above them towards the center of the clearing. It casts a soft glow on them, lighting the mist around their ankles and the dewy blades of grass, catching on the delicate petals of the flowers and barely revealing the knotted bark of the trees just beyond.

But it also reveals two large paws and two rows of gleaming talons, dappled feathers that smooth to dark fur, and the sharp beak of the biggest Hippogriff Harry's ever seen.

It towers several heads above Harry, shoulders back and chest out, tilting its head as it catches sight of Harry and Eggsy in the ethereal, foggy light. The pupils of its gold-orange eyes is wide in the darkness, hawk-like and more discerning than any other creature he's come across. It holds itself with an air of nobility, back straight and wings tucked regally at its sides, tail lashing back and forth in interests as it surveys them. A shiver runs down Harry's spine; despite the superficial similarities between the face of the Hippogriff and his own owl, there's no denying the commanding, intimidating physical presence of the Hippogriff.

"Blimey," Eggsy breathes in awe, and the Hippogriff twitches, ear-tufts turning and twisting at the sound. Harry has to stop himself from moving, from stepping to the side to put himself further between Eggsy and the towering creature.

"Eggsy," Harry says calmly, subtly adjusting the grip on his wand without drawing too much attention to the movement, "if you could take the flowers out of my hand, please, and head back to the castle-"

"Head back to the castle?!" Eggsy whispers heatedly - Harry can imagine the stubborn furrow of his brow, though he doesn't dare to look back at Eggsy. "Like _hell_ I"m-"

The Hippogriff's great head swivels and its ears prick again, and it takes a plodding step closer, snorting in what Harry can only assume is curiosity that gets the better of its natural superiority. Its back hooves make heavy, clapping thumps against the firm ground, polished and gleaming in the soft light. Eggsy cuts himself off; Harry hears his feet shifting in the long grass, careful of the massive creature in front of them.

Harry glances to either side as surreptitiously as he can; there's no clear way out of the meadow except for the winding path they took to find it - directly across the clearing, and through the large and unusually curious Hippogriff.

Slowly, and without raising his wand any further, Harry takes a cautious step forward. The Hippogriff bristles, fur standing on end along its back and feathers puffing out in a ruff around its neck, making it appear even bigger than it already is. Its pupils get wider as it twitches and tilts its head, straightening its stance to be on the defensive. A strange, throaty growl emits from its throat, rumbling and low-pitched like the wind through the trees, as Harry does take a step to the side to block Eggsy from the Hippogriff's path.The muscles underneath the dark, tawny fur of its sides ripple as it flexes its huge wings, the grass underneath waving and flattening from the eddies of wind. It’s starting to panic. Harry can see the fright creeping into its too-wide eyes, the tension coiling tighter in the lines of its body. They need to get out of here - so large a Hippogriff, even calm, is a risk; a Hippogriff frightened beyond reason is outright dangerous.

Harry braces himself, squinting in the half-darkness as a breeze kicks up from the Hippogriff's flapping, ruffling his hair and making his robes billow out behind him.

"Eggsy," Harry says firmly, taking half a step back as the Hippogriff's eyes dart to and fro, between Harry and Eggsy, sharp and fierce, "I really must insist-"

But then Eggsy's in front of him, pressing him backwards bodily with his back against Harry's chest until Harry's several paces back from the puffed-up Hippogriff, Eggsy solid and sure between them. The Hippogriff stills, tilting its head as it examines Eggsy with first one gold eye and then the other, considering. 

Slowly, and with deliberate exaggeration, Eggsy lowers his right arm and slides his wand back into his pocket, murmuring at the Hippogriff all the while, so softly that Harry can't pick out the words. He doesn’t lift up his hands, or clench his fists - they stay soft and still by Eggsy’s sides, and after a moment Eggsy slowly turns his palms towards the Hippogriff, making an obvious show of the fact that he’s unarmed.

Harry’s behind him, so he can’t see everything - and he dares not to move, with the Hippogriff still on high alert - but from what he can tell Eggsy’s maintaining eye contact, keeping his spine straight and shoulders back, confident but not aggressive. The Hippogriff, whether consciously or not, begins to mirror Eggsy’s posture, eyes sharply trained on Eggsy’s every move. The ruff of feathers around its neck and chest begins to soften and lie flat as it visibly calms, bit by bit, its pupils shrinking back to a normal size in the half-darkness. It makes an odd, rumbling click in the back of its throat, pawing gently at the ground with its back hoof - but it’s not a warning, not like before.

Eggsy’s name bubbles up in Harry’s throat as Eggsy takes a slow step forward, but he bites his tongue. He looks small against the towering height of the dark Hippogriff, but whatever he’s doing - calming the Hippogriff with his body language, murmuring quietly as he approaches the magnificent creature -seems to be working, and that’s reason enough not to interrupt. Not when this is the best kind of learning experience, as serendipitous as it is: _real-world_ experience, the kind that can’t be recreated quite the same within the walls of a classroom. For a student that aspires to be an auror, there’s no comparison. 

And Merlin had said that going into the Forbidden Forest as detention wouldn’t be a redeeming experience.

Harry watches as, slowly and gracefully, Eggsy bends at the waist in a deep bow towards the Hippogriff. His robes billow out underneath him, caught in the gentle breeze and the motion of the bow, but the Hippogriff doesn’t startle, doesn’t react to the movements of the dark cloth. Its eyes are locked on Eggsy’s, intelligent and assessing, and Eggsy stays bent and patient as it examines him. His sides and back are flexed from the effort of staying in such a pose, but it’s not too much strain; whatever practices the Hufflepuff Quidditch team puts its players through is working for Eggsy’s endurance, and he waits for the Hippogriff’s response with an ease of strength that’s actually rather impressive.

Finally, after a tense half-minute of thorough scrutiny, the Hippogriff bends one knee, bowing in return to Eggsy’s gesture. Harry releases a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and Eggsy does the same, exhaling a relieved sigh as he stands upright again, rolling his shoulders to work out the strain of holding the bowed pose for so long. The Hippogriff, too, stands up at its proud height, blinking calmly in the starlight and re-adjusting its wings to tuck them primly against its dappled sides.

“Well done, Eggsy,” Harry says, just loud enough for his words to be carried on the wind - but not so loud as to startle the Hippogriff again. Its great crown-like tufts of ears prick up anyways at his words, though it is more wide-eyed and curious than alarmed at this point. Having one person in the clearing that it trusts has done wonders for changing the tone of its composure; already it’s more relaxed, tail flicking in wary interest but not in fear approaching panic, its gaze scrutinizing but not frightened - or dangerously aggressive.

“Thanks,” Eggsy says, beaming - though he doesn’t turn his face away from the Hippogriff just yet. He shows his palms to the Hippogriff as he takes a slow stroll closer, until he’s within reach of its massive flank - and reaches out to put his hand on its side. The Hippogriff’s muscle twitches beneath the layer of feathers but it doesn’t shy away or snap at him in reaction; in fact, it looks rather unconcerned with the human attention, head tilting this way and that as it looks around the rest of the misty clearing and at the night sky above. “Glad we did that unit about Hippogriffs in Care of Magical Creatures, though I’ve never seen one so- ”

The Hippogriff swivels its great head to meet Eggsy’s eyes before he can finish his sentence, and Eggsy chuckles. “- _Impressively_ large,” he finishes, patting the Hippogriff’s flank underneath his hand.

“Hippogriff do indeed live in the Forbidden Forest, as I’m sure you’ve gathered by now,” Harry says, tucking the Black Moon Blossoms into one of the pouches of his bag so that he can shuck his gloves and properly bow at the Hippogriff as well. “I’ve never seen them reaching such strength and size, but I’m sure it’s not unheard of. The latent magic of the forest is responsible for all manner of wild things, after all.”

The Hippogriff bows stiffly to Harry, and keeps its eyes pinned to him until Harry amends, “Not that I count you amongst such wild things, sir.” After that it returns to preening its flight feathers, stretching out one massive wing to nibble and straighten the feathers into place, and plucking out the ones where new feathers are already growing to replace them.

Eggsy combs his fingers through the short feathers along its sides, running his hands across the unique texture where the feather and fur intermix, careful not to pet against the grain. He grins at Harry, clearly pleased with himself, and picks a few stray leaves out of the Hippogriff’s dark fur.

“You’d think he’d fly,” he says after a moment, nodding up to the sky above, “to get around, rather than crash through the brush. Don’t think he’s hurt, is he?”

“I think he’s just fussing with the feathers,” Harry replies, slowly circling to the Hippogriff’s other side, careful to keep one hand on it at all times as not to surprise it - not unlike a horse, in that respect. “But if he’ll let me, I’ll have a look at it.”

The Hippogriff eyes Harry as he approaches the crook of its right wing, watching hawkishly as he steps closer. It clicks its beak, as if a reminder of how sharp and deadly it can be, but it lets Harry run his hand from the meat of its shoulder, where the muscular base of the wing meets its back, to the first joint where it had been fussing with its feathers. The muscles twitch as Harry gets closer to the elbow, underneath its layers of feathers: the stiffer flight feathers at the top, and downy undercoat underneath that Harry only grazes gently with his fingertips.

Calmly, Harry raises his wand and shines the lit tip of it down onto the crook of the Hippogriff’s wing, gently petting back the feathers to get a closer look.

Even without the Hippogriff’s soft rumble of annoyance, Harry would be able to tell that something’s wrong. The downy feathers close to its skin are matted with dried blood, far thicker and blacker than any healing wound should be. The surrounding skin is rubbed raw, tender and pink and hot to the touch when Harry presses his fingers to it as gently as he can, and the Hippogriff shivers behind him. It paws the ground, impatient, as Harry parts its feathers like the pages of an old book, getting closer and closer to the wound itself. He wrinkles his nose, the heady scent of the Black Moon Blossoms in his bag overwhelmed by the odor of blood and sweat, and the vaguely horsey smell that all Hippogriffs emit. But there’s a tinge of something else, something medicinal and out-of-place that gets stronger when Harry finally reveals the Hippogriff’s injury at the crux of the wing’s elbow, deep in the damp feathers where it’s hardest for the Hippogriff to reach.

It’s a deep, jagged cut, made with something sharp - not something that the Hippogriff would naturally encounter, Harry thinks as he grimaces. It looks visibly different from the scars on the Hippogriff’s forelegs and hindquarters, natural scratches and marks left by other Hippogriffs while playing or fighting. The pungent scent of rot and the sticky, medicinal smell of herbs is nearly strong enough to make Harry’s eyes water - or maybe that’s the magic; the cut is oozing that as well, drawing energy out of the Hippogriff to feed whatever spell still lingers in it.

The Hippogriff makes a noise of complaint but calms easily when Eggsy murmurs to it again, stroking through the feathers on its strong chest as he watches Harry, mouth set into a grim line. Harry meets his eyes over the crest of the Hippogriff’s wing, turning back to his examination with pursed lips, frowning at the dark magic knotted up in the wound.

“I should be able to heal this - or, at least, ease some of his pain,” Harry says quietly, petting the Hippogriff’s shoulder for how patient it is being with Harry’s poking and prodding, “but whatever made this wound was magical - and not just in the flying eagle-horse way.”

“Dark magic?” Eggsy murmurs, and Harry nods. Eggsy’s eyebrows draw together in a deeper frown, and he digs his fingers a little further into the Hippogriff’s feathery ruff. It clicks its beak again and nudges against Eggsy’s jaw with its head and hooked beak, and Eggsy reaches up to rub comfortingly along its head instead.

The attention Eggsy gives the Hippogriff is enough to distract it from Harry attending to the wound; blood still oozes sluggishly from the cut as Harry cleans it out with a few careful, well-placed disinfectant spells, but the bleeding is already beginning to stop by the time he’s transfiguring his handkerchief into a makeshift gauze pad. He’s able to affix the bandage in place, nestled securely amongst the feathers, wrapping lengths of gauze around the whole joint so that it will stay in place even when the Hippogriff takes flight.

With the physical wound treated, Harry turns to the underlying magic, the festering spell that caused the injury in the first place. He can feel its bitter presence on the back of his tongue; it releases an acrid tremor of magic when he presses his hand softly to the gauze, feeling the seep of fetid magic underneath. The Hippogriff grunts and twitches when he presses down a little harder, but doesn’t buck away or try to straighten its wing, or kick Harry away from its side.

“I’m going to break the spell now,” Harry says, as much to the Hippogriff as to Eggsy. The Hippogriff’s ears flick and it tilts its big head to look at Harry over its shoulder, wary but not protesting. Eggsy, for his part, nods curtly and steadies his hands against the Hippogriff, ready for however the Hippogriff reacts to the spell’s removal.

It’s a little anti-climactic; the darkness seems to swallow them as Harry tucks the tip of his wand underneath the gauze, lighting it from within and plunging them into the dark of the forest for the first time since they’d entered the clearing. He mutters the spell-breaking incantation and there’s a sharp burst of sparks from underneath the bandages, and a quiet _pop!_ that accompanies the flash. It blinds Harry momentarily, and he squints as his vision returns; the Hippogriff has barely moved, though, Eggsy petting its chest and beak calmly and rhythmically, watching the proceedings with concern in his eyes. 

“That’s it?” Eggsy asks after the faint wisps of smoke clear, and with a half-shrug and raised eyebrows, Harry pulls the gauze pad away from the Hippogriff’s skin a little - enough to see that the thick, black blood around the wound has dulled to a normal rusty brown, and the pungent smell emanating from the cut has cleared, leaving the faint lemony scent of the antiseptic spells he’d cast earlier, but nothing more.

It appears so,” Harry says, patting the gauze in place and combing the Hippogriff’s feathers over the wound protectively, straightening the ones he’d ruffled in the course of his examination. “I’m no expert on magical creatures, though; it would behoove this fellow to have the proper professor have a look at it.”

Eggsy breaks out into a smile at the news, and scratches at the Hippogriff affectionately; it makes a trilling noise and butts its head against the side of Eggsy’s, directing exactly where he should scratch. Eggsy laughs, allowing himself to be nudged by the massive creature.

“You _are_ a proper professor,” he tells Harry, still smiling, “Both _proper_ and a _professor_.”

“Ta, but you know what I meant,” Harry bends to pick his bag up off the ground, hoisting it over his shoulder and ducking under the Hippogriff’s wing to join Eggsy by its head. Without Harry behind its wing the Hippogriff folds it against it side again, moving it gingerly but not in an visible pain. If its affectionate nibbling of Eggsy’s hair and ear is anything to go by, it’s already beginning to feel better and more like the proud, intelligent animal of the Forest he knows Hippogriffs to be. “I may know a good deal about dark magic, but my magical veterinary skills are no comparison to Professor Gawain’s.”

“It’s lucky in a way, then, that someone who knows a lot about dark magic was just what this big guy needed,” Eggsy says, and Harry’s frown returns as he turns over the fact in his mind.

“I find that only concerns me further, Eggsy,” Harry sighs, looking between his student and the large, gray-black Hippogriff. Though it stands several heads above either of them, it’s bending down so that Eggsy can run his fingers through the feathers at the base of its ear-tufts, scratching an apparently hard to reach place; in the grass at their feet, the Hippogriff’s claws leave deep marks as it clutches the ground, trying to keep upright despite the cat-like lethargy Eggsy’s itching inspires.

Harry puts his hand on Eggsy’s shoulder and he pauses in his ministrations, looking back at Harry with raised eyebrows. “I was very impressed with your actions, though I can’t recommend that you always put yourself between me and danger, even when you think you know better.”

Eggsy smirks and shrugs one shoulder, shifting his weight from foot to foot; his muscles flex underneath Harry’s hand as he does so. “Knew just from the look of him that something was wrong - we covered Hippogriffs enough in class that I was pretty sure that I knew what to do, but he was reacting so poorly to you pulling out your wand. Could see in his eyes that something ain’t right, yeah? Hippogriffs are smart, they’re not scared so easily.”

“Still,” Harry looks at Eggsy over the rims of his glasses. “There’s a difference between remembering the knowledge from class and being able to apply it correctly when the situation arises. That’s the point of all the practical sessions in class, you know, but even that can’t always prepare us for what’s to come.”

“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience,” Eggsy says with a small smile, dipping his chin at compliment.

Harry hums his agreement, letting his hand slide off Eggsy’s shoulder and tuck into his own pockets; it’s not nearly as warm as Eggsy had been, even through the thick layers of his cold-weather robe. He doesn’t elaborate, and Eggsy doesn’t pester him about it; not all of his memories about being a defender against the dark arts are ones he’s willing to dredge up again.

“What d’you think happened to make him so nervous around wands - around wizards?” Eggsy asks quietly.

“I’m afraid you’ve just answered your own question,” Harry sighs, and takes a few steps back from Eggsy and the Hippogriff to rustle around in his pack. He counts the number of Black Moon Blossoms that he’d haphazardly stuffed there, thankfully no worse for wear in the suede and magic-lined inner pockets - not quite enough for the amount that they needed, but with the ones that Eggsy had collected before they’d been interrupted, it should be plenty for Professor Lance’s uses. “From the look of the cut and the magic I was able to break, there’s little doubt in my mind that this Hippogriff had a run-in with a wizard, and not a pleasant one.”

Eggsy shakes his head, giving the Hippogriff one last pat on its feathered side before joining Harry a few paces away, his hands clenched into fists. The Hippogriff blinks at them, considering, stamping at the ground with its back hoof. After a moment it decides that whatever they’re doing is of no consequence and bends to root around in the grass with its beak, looking for something to snack on, though its ears are still swiveling and alert to their voices and movements.

“He’ll be fine,” Eggsy says, shifting his bag from one shoulder to the other and gathering the prickly stems of the Black Moon Blossoms to hand over to Harry. His voice is calm and it’s not quite a question, but Harry can see the worry in his eyes, even in the half-darkness of their wand light. 

“Yes, he will,” Harry nods, inhaling deeply and cutting off the sigh that threatens to escape him. The Hippogriff _will_ be fine, but the fact that he was magically injured is not; Harry’s going to have to bring it up to Merlin. They’ll have to figure out what - or who - is lurking in the Forbidden Forest so far from the rest of the Wizarding World, but so close to Hogwarts and its students. “He must be over seven feet, and the largest Hippogriff I’ve ever encountered; the rest of the herd must not be too far.”

They stroll slowly towards the edge of the clearing, back in the direction from which they came, in the direction of the castle. Eggsy’s lips are pursed but he nods thoughtfully, looking over to the Hippogriff again. The meadow almost looks like a magical painting: the Hippogriff grazing calmly in the grass, the sky vibrant and star-studded without the bright eye of the moon, or even a cloud to obscure the view. The glowing flower-heads of the Black Moon Blossoms and the knobbly branches of the Forbidden Forest ringing the meadow make it all the more mystical - Harry has to admit that it’s quite the sight, even for someone who grew up in the presence of magic.

At some unknown sign the Hippogriff looks up, ears pricked and eyes wide, standing stock-still as it listens to something too faint for Harry or Eggsy to hear. Whatever it is, the Hippogriff barely hesitates; its wings flare out and extend to their full, impressive span, beating twice and sending gusts of wind swirling through the long grass below it. The gauze bandage holds despite the vigorous motion, flexing along with the corded muscles in the Hippogriff’s wings, and after a quick assessment of the stars above it launches itself into the air. Out of the range of their _Lumos_ spells it quickly becomes nothing more than a winged silhouette, dark against the dense net of stars in the sky, as quiet as an owl once it’s away from the ground and the rustling grass and leaves. Harry loses sight of it as its shape passes closer the horizon, blocked from their view by the tangle of tree branches that surround the edges of the clearing high above them.

They’re quiet for a moment, in the peace of the natural nighttime stillness; even the Forbidden Forest has its quiet moments, and for a long breath the forest is all soft murmuring winds in the leaves, the hazy smell of the Black Moon Blossoms, the starlight caught on the dewdrops in the grassy center of the clearing like diamonds crystallized along the dark green blades. The sounds of the forest are calming, like breathing, rather than foreboding and ominous as it usually is - even during the day. Harry breathes in a deep breath of the cool night air, watching the vapors of his exhale dissipate into the air again like its own kind of magic.

“Let’s be going back to the castle,” he finally says softly, breaking the gentle spell of quiet hanging over them. Eggsy just nods, giving him a small smile when Harry nods back, far more muted than he had been when they started the journey - and his detention - a few hours before.

They follow the path back to the lower Hogwarts lawn, coming out of the trees somewhere between the grounds-keeper’s cottage and the lake - not where they had entered the forest, exactly, but no matter. The reflection of the night sky on the surface of the lake - and the castle mirrored upside-down, when they’re close enough to see its reflection as well - is nearly as beautiful as the hidden clearing they’d found so deep in the forest, Harry thinks; he should spend some more time out on nights of the new moon, though the coming winter season makes for even colder evenings. Perhaps a visit to the astronomy tower is in order.

Eggsy, at his side, says as much as they draw closer to the castle - through his chattering teeth, which makes the both of them smile. They round the side of the castle with quick steps, happy to heave open the heavy keep door and enter the Great Hall. 

“So’s that it, then?” Eggsy asks, unwinding his yellow-and-black scarf from his neck as they step further away from the door. The warmth of the castle quickly seeps into Harry’s fingers again, and he pulls off his gloves and loosens his scarf as well. He raises an eyebrow at Eggsy, who half-rolls his eyes and rubs at his nose, pink and dripping a little from the chilly walk.

“Is handing over the Black Moon Blossom to Professor Lance himself a part of my detention?” he asks, gesturing to Harry’s bag - where all of the flowers are tucked safely, thorns and all. “You have them all now, anyhow, and - it’s getting pretty late. Can I kip off to bed?”

Harry smiles, shaking his head in amusement as Eggsy breaks into a yawn almost immediately after he’s finished his question. He gathers his scarf in his arms, rubbing his hands together to restore the feeling to the tips of his fingers now that his gloves are off. “Go to bed, Eggsy; I’ll give these to Professor Lance so he can get to work on them, he knows they’re time-sensitive to stay active potion ingredients.”

Eggsy grins, satisfied but tired, and runs a hand through his hair. “Thanks, Professor. See you at the game on Saturday?”

“I’ll be there,” Harry promises, and with a nod and a wave, Eggsy turns on his heel and heads for the stairs down to the Hufflepuff dormitories, black robes billowing out behind him in his haste to get to bed.

Harry stuffs his gloves in his pockets and adjusts the strap of his heavy bag on his shoulder, for a moment considering whether or not to drop off the flowers to Professor Lance first, or to stop by Merlin’s office to deliver the news of the Hippogriff before heading down to the dungeons.

It only takes him seconds to decide; the Black Moon Blossoms _are_ time-sensitive ingredients, he was telling the truth about that. But handing them over to the Potions Professor means that by the time he gets to Merlin’s office, he’ll have all the more information about the ongoing saga of Ashwicke and Lance to tease Merlin with. That alone is enough motivator to have him turning away from the warmth of the Great Hall and down to the cool depths of the Potion Master’s offices.

Harry can’t get it out of his head as he passes through the chilly and damp corridors, past the thick glass windows that look deep into the lake - and at the giant squid, who is in cheerful form for the new moon, peering in at the interior of the castle with its dinner-plate eyes. He’d put himself between Harry and the threat of harm, armed only with his wit and his wand. Eggsy’s determination - another word for stubbornness, he can hear Merlin saying in the back of his mind - when in the face of danger was commendable, remarkable for someone who had no more field experience than any other seventh year. It was a situation Harry had found himself in many times, over the years, though the _throwing-himself-between-danger-and-friends_ is what he usually considers to be a decidedly Gryffindor trait. But more than that, Eggsy had known exactly what to do, had called up the knowledge he’d absorbed in class and was able to execute it correctly on his first try, with consequences far less than disastrous. Indeed, if he’d managed not to get either of them hurt but had scared the Hippogriff off - as was Harry’s initial plan - they never would have discovered its unusual, magical wound. 

Eggsy certainly is full of surprises.

He sees it again a few days later, at the Quidditch match between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff: Eggsy is _there_ , unerringly and unhesitant, every time there’s a bludger careening close to one of his team-mates. He swoops and weaves through the action on the field, always perfectly in place to bash a bludger away from the keeper, the diving seeker, his fellow beater when she’s facing the wrong way and fighting off the other bludger; he puts himself in harm’s way without a thought. It’s less stubbornness than it is about protection, Harry decides, his eyes tracking Eggsy’s movements high above the pitch, a golden blur among the many small, blurry figures taking to the sky like busy insects.

Whether that’s a Hufflepuff or a Gryffindor trait, Harry doesn’t really care; it’s all Eggsy Unwin, and that seems to be the most important thing, anyways.

Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw are quite evenly matched, that afternoon, and the game goes on for a neat two hours before the Hufflepuff seeker manages to eek past the Ravenclaw seeker to the snitch. She holds it aloft, grin brighter than her robes and laughing as its tiny wings beat against her gloved palm. As soon as she touches down on the grass below her team-mates engulf her, delighted with the handy win and clapping each other on the back for a game well played.

Harry watches Eggsy embrace his team-mates, keeping him in the corner of his eye as he stands and shuffles towards the stairs down from the Professor’s box, until Eggsy’s out of sight within the locker rooms and he has to turn and watch where he’s going down the stairs, lest he fall.

It’s all Eggsy Unwin, indeed, and he finds that he can’t seem to get the young man out of his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more Kingsman and Hartwin-variety writing and art, join me in Hartwin trash hell and follow me on [tumblr!](http://venvephe.tumblr.com)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize that this is so tardy! Quite a few things happened around the holidays that kept me busy (good things!) and with the Hartwin Secret Santa, this had to get pushed off to the side! As always, my everlasting love to DivineProjectZero, without whom this fic would not exist.
> 
> This is a nice, long chapter, though - I hope you enjoy it!

The high of Hufflepuff winning its first Quidditch game of the year takes Eggsy through the otherwise dreary weeks of mid and late November, nearly to the cusp of the holiday season. Quidditch practices get colder and colder - and shorter and shorter - as the evenings get darker and December comes closer. That doesn’t stop the team from having fun and productive practices, honing their skills for the next match, though more often than not they come in from the pitch bleary-eyed and pink-nosed from the chilly wind. But with the warmth of the fireplace in the Hufflepuff common room and plenty of tea and cocoa to go around, evenings with Quidditch practice are often the highlight of Eggsy’s day.

But not always.

Though the holidays draw nearer, so does the date of exams, and he’s busier than ever with his studies; four NEWT-level classes with Quidditch practices on top means there’s only one, maybe two afternoon a week that he can dedicate to spending with Professor Hart and helping him grade. But that’s all right - they frequently sit in companionable silence as Eggsy works on his latest parchment or a reading for Charms while Professor Hart works through a stack of essays or writes up his lesson plans in confident, curling script. Once or twice he even reads aloud some parts of his lectures for Eggsy, to make sure that whatever difficult subject matter he’s presenting to his younger students is still understandable.

(“If I can get it, then your first years can get it, is that it?” Eggsy asks with a wry grin, and Professor Hart gives him a charming smile.

“Why, precisely,” he replies, with not a small amount of amusement. “And you aren’t as harsh a critic as my owl.”)

It’s after one of these practice lectures that Professor Hart sighs, shaking his head and grumbling, “That went about as well as I expect my Yule Ball lessons with the second years to go.”

Eggsy looks up from the notes he’s taking for his Transfiguration paper, book slowly sliding down the incline of his lap as he blinks owlishly, the feathered tip of his quill still at the corner of his mouth. “Yule ball lessons?” he asks, raising his eyebrows. “As in - _dance_ lessons?”

The lines between Professor Hart’s brows deepen as he starts to frown, sifting through the papers on his desk for something in particular. “Dance lessons, yes,” he says, finally pulling his own quill out from between two thick rolls of parchment. “Don’t sound so delighted at the prospect; I can’t imagine the second years or I will have a particularly wonderful time. It was Merlin’s idea.”

“Oh, bollocks!” Eggsy grins widely, pointing to Professor Hart with the nib-end of his quill, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice, “Honestly, Professor - you’re complaining about it now, but you’re going to enjoy it. ‘S all your favorite things - teaching, second years-”

“Ha,” Professor Hart rolls his eyes.

“-showing off how posh you are, classical music-”

“ _Showing off how posh I am_?” Professor Hart repeats, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest, though Eggsy can see the smile curling at the corner of his mouth. He enunciates each word crisp and neat, for nothing else than to make Eggsy’s grin broaden. “Really, Eggsy?”

“You can’t deny it,” he shrugs, smiling. “I’ve seen what you like to wear to Hogsmeade, and there’s this, too.”

“You just gestured to all of me, Eggsy,” Professor Hart says dryly.

Eggsy winks. “That’s to say nothing of your accent, or just what’s in this office. You’re a posh wizard - ain’t anything wrong with that,” he adds with a grin, “but I grew up in South London; I call it like it is.”

“I see,” the professor leans forward and knits his fingers together, setting his clasped hands on top of the haphazard pile of parchment essays on his desk. It leaves him nearly elbow-deep in loose leaves of parchment, but he only quirks an eyebrow when Eggsy snorts in amusement at the sight. “I can’t say you’re wrong - well, about everything _besides_ second years being my favorite students.”

Eggsy has to bite his tongue to stop himself from asking, then, who Professor Hart’s favorite students _are_. He’s got a feeling about the answer from how often the man talks about enjoying the freedom to teach more complex subjects in a more freeform style with the NEWT-level seventh year class. Still, there’s a cold-hot flash in his blood and a curl in the pit of his stomach as he realizes he doesn’t quite want to know the answer, lest it be something other than what he’s expecting - hoping.

“If you’re just complaining because Merlin signed you up without asking you first, you should know it’s a right good idea,” Eggsy says instead, tucking his quill into his book to save his place and closing it; there’s no way he’s going to be able to keep reading now. “He’s right that you’d be good at it, after all. Whether or not the second years remember all the steps, you’ll make them feel comfortable - and that’s how you have fun at the Ball, not with perfect dance moves.”

Professor Hart tilts his head, considering, his eyes twinkling from the firelight in the office’s little hearth. He steeples his hands and presses them to his mouth for a moment and nods thoughtfully; Eggsy feels his eyes catch on those broad palms, long fingers - and shakes his thoughts away before he gets caught staring.

“You are right about that,” Professor Hart finally replies, “though it wouldn’t hurt to try to instill some dance moves and proper ball manners as well.” He smiles, eyes warm behind his glasses, and Eggsy shrugs back with a smile.

“They’re second years,” he chuckles, “I’m not sure how much of _manners_ you can expect.”

“Still,” Professor Hart leans back in his chair, absently straightening the piles of parchment with a flick of his wrist - the loose ones wind themselves up and tuck  neatly together in a little pyramid to one side of the desk. “Thank you, Eggsy. Your confidence in my patience, at least, is heartening.”

“Mark my words, Harry Hart,” Eggsy gestures with his quill again, pointing to Professor Hart, “you’ll end up enjoying it, too.”

The words are out of his mouth just as Eggsy’s brain catches up, and he winces internally, biting his lip as if he can take them back. His cheeks heat, and it’s not from the roaring fire in the hearth on the far wall; he’s unable to tear his eyes away from Professor Hart’s face, time slowed to an agonizing crawl as if by magic. Professor Hart blinks, his smile slipping slightly in his surprise at Eggsy calling him his given name, and Eggsy’s stomach drops. God, _fuck_ . And things had been so easy and settled between them lately, too - so companionable and constant among the fervor of life at Hogwarts. He’s a _Professor_ , amongst themselves the professors call each other by their first names but for _students_ , it’s-

But Professor Hart’s smile is returning before Eggsy’s thoughts can churn and froth any further, and his mouth goes dry. His heartbeat sounds tripled to his own ears, amplified by the quiet of the room - which Eggsy knows, logically, is no quieter than it usually is, filled with the occasional snap and crackle from the fire or the leaf-like shifting of parchment, or the squeaking of Eggsy’s wingback chair when he adjusts in it. The pounding of his heart is like a drumbeat against the inside of his ribs, nerves rising like bile in the back of his throat as he waits for Professor Hart’s response.

Professor Hart raises his eyebrows slightly, looking away to adjust some of the items on his desk - various artifacts and mementos from his time as an Auror, Eggsy assumes, though now they mostly serve as unusual paperweights. He lets the silence stretch a beat longer, and Eggsy’s chest feels near to bursting with the anticipation; when the professor meets his eyes again, though, there’s no reproach in them - just a subtle slyness that Eggsy’s not sure he’s ever seen before.

“If you’re so sure of that, Eggsy,” he says, shifting in his chair so that he’s sitting at his full height again, and Eggsy swallows, fruitlessly trying not to blush further at hearing his _own_ first name from Professor Hart’s mouth, “and so sure of my teaching ability as well - why don’t you accompany me in demonstrating for the second years? Bring along Miss Morton, too. It’ll be good for the younger students to have role models.”

Eggsy lets out the breath he’d been holding, unaware that he’d been doing so in the first place, and breaks out into a smile; he can only hope that Professor Hart doesn’t realize that it’s as much a smile of relief as anything else. He runs a hand through his hair, rubbing the back of his neck as he laughs, scrunching his nose. “And I thought detention in the Forbidden Forest was daunting.”

Professor Hart laughs, then, bright and in obvious delight. “Come now! That ended as well as we could’ve hoped; no bodily injury to either of us, except perhaps some pricking of those nasty little thorns and some runny noses from the cold. You could have had worse luck - I hear Mr Hesketh had the far more arduous task of dusting in the Restricted Section without the use of his wand.”

Eggsy snorts, the mental image of Charlie doing housework without the help of magic as amusing as it is hard to imagine - not to mention dealing with the irritability of many of the books in the Restricted Section. But dancing for the younger students - in front of Professor Hart, even at his request - is another matter entirely.

He can feel himself softening to the idea as he turns it over in his mind. There are plenty of younger Hufflepuffs he’s gotten the chance to know, at breakfasts and dinners throughout the fall, and it might do them well to see a familiar face. The Yule Ball should be a good experience for everyone, after all - whether or not they are good at formal dancing or downright awful. And, as he’d said to Professor Hart just a few minutes before - confidence and being comfortable on the dance at the Yule Ball would help the second years have a good time more than anything else.

“When are you giving these lessons?” he asks slowly, feigning reluctance and picking at the loose thread at the sleeve of his robe.

“Thursday evenings, next week and the week following - which I know you have free, seeing as you won’t stop reminding me of when your Quidditch schedule conflicts with your study schedule,” Professor Hart peers at him over the rims of his glasses; Eggsy’s insides tighten with sudden heat. That probably shouldn’t have the effect on him that it does.

“In that case…” Eggsy trails off, but he breaks his feigned reluctance and grins when Professor Hart actually brings up a hand to lower his glasses further down his nose, looking over them at Eggsy in exaggerated prompting. Eggsy lets his shoulders drop and holds up his hands in defeat, chuckling. “Okay, yes! It’ll be fun, I still hold to that. Roxy won’t mind coming along, or at least I can convince her to spend the evening away from her books for a bit.”

“That’s the spirit,” Professor Hart nods at him, his smile bright in the fire-lit room. “I knew you’d warm up to the idea.”

Eggsy rolls his eyes and cracks his book open again, tucking the quill behind his ear for a moment as he gets settled with his parchment in the squishy chair. “The question isn’t whether or not I’d help, actually,” he says after a moment, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes at Professor Hart in mock-scrutiny. “- it’s why you’ve been holding out on me, knowing what awful task Charlie had to do for detention!”

 

“Dance lessons?” Roxy, by some miracle, manages to ask in a tone identical to the one Eggsy had used when hearing of it back in Professor Hart’s office. “You signed us up to help with second year _dance lessons_?”

“Oi,” Eggsy gestures at her with the rest of his biscuit, chewing the other half as she half-glares at him from her perch on the lumpy red common room couch. “Excuse me, Gryffindor - Gryffindor _prefect_ at that. You like helping other students!”

Roxy doesn’t deny it, but her frown only softens slightly. “Not during my own planned study hours, egg-head.” She takes the pillow cuddled in her lap and whumps him over the head with it, not very hard; Eggsy laughs, leaning out of her arm-reach and picking up a pillow of his own to bat back at her.

“I’m a beater, Rox, you ain’t gonna to do any damage that way!”

“You bloody well know I’m worried about my marks in Transfiguration!” she complains, mouth twisted sideways as she fights to keep a smile off her face from their antics. “Thursday evenings are the times when I study with Sophie!”

“Ahh,” Eggsy pauses in his defense at that, wagging his finger at Roxy, accusing - in time with his wiggling eyebrows. Roxy manages to get a good hit in on the side of his head as he’s distracted, bopping him across the ear. He leans back from the impact, only to spring upright again a moment later, unharmed. Eggsy smirks, rubbing at his ear with the cuff of his sweater’s sleeve. “That’s your real complaint, ain’t it? ‘S gonna cut into your study time with Sophie.”

Roxy rolls her eyes heavenward and gathers her pillow her lap again, propping up her heavy Herbology textbook against it with a fond sigh. The Gryffindor common room is quiet enough that evening, with so many students studying in the library and in other parts of the castle, so they’re mostly alone - and no one pays any mind to them now, anyways. It’s not uncommon at all for them to spend time in each other’s common rooms, after all, though it has been less frequent as of late, something that Eggsy’s trying to remedy as often as he can. Their pillow-fight didn’t even cause any heads to turn, but Eggsy grins at Roxy’s reaction anyways, watching her blow strands of hair out of her face in mock-annoyance.

“We actually do study, you know,” Roxy says, combing her ponytail back over her shoulder and crossing her arms. She leans over her book to peer down at Eggsy, who’s cross-legged on the floor with his study materials spread out around him like an elaborate summoning circle. Eggsy half-shrugs, a smirk still pulling at the corner of his mouth; he wouldn’t blame her if that wasn’t all they did.

“Really!” Roxy insists.

She’s starting to blush, which is rare for Roxy, and Eggsy just raises an eyebrow and tugs his notes closer, nibbling the end of his quill like he always does when he gets deep into studying. “I’m sure you do, Rox. Found a nice quiet corner of the library, have you?”

Roxy narrows her eyes and smiles primly, unwilling to rise to the bait. “Weren’t you the one to call - whatever it is that might be going on between Sophie and me a _forbidden romance_? And yet you want all the details?”

“That’s what best friends are for,” Eggsy smiles, watching as Roxy’s eyes soften and her fingers curl a little tighter around the corners of her book. “That, and helping out a mate when he’s volunteered you to teach second years how to properly dance for the Yule Ball.”

“Eggsy,” Roxy shakes her head, chuckling. She reaches out one socked foot and taps him on the shoulder with her toes, leaning carefully as to not lose her balance and slide off the squashy couch.

“But you will help out, won’t you?” Eggsy says, trapping her foot against his shoulder and squeezing her ankle comfortingly; without saying anything Roxy flexes her foot against him, nudging him lightly with her socked toes again.

“’Course I will,” she says, lingering another moment before pulling her foot out of Eggsy’s grip and tucking it underneath herself again, sitting cross-legged in the center of the couch, pillows amassed around her and her books like a throne. “Would probably do me good, to get away from studying for an evening - though I’ll be counting on you to help me make sure my Transfiguration grade stays up.”

“You’ll be fine,” Eggsy grins at her, chest feeling light and warm when she shoots him a smile; there’s something special and perfect about their friendship, about being best friends with someone who understands you so completely that they don’t always need words. He rubs the back of his neck, rearranging the leaves of parchment in his lap for something to do with his hands. “Besides,” he adds, after a moment of thought, “It’ll impress Sophie, yeah? You’ll need the practice, if you want to match up to her grace on the dance floor.”

“Worry about yourself,” Roxy laughs, “You do realize that you’ve volunteered us to be the role models for the entire second year class, yeah? And that for any extra time that it means you’ll spend with Professor Hart-” Eggsy begins to squawk in protest, but Roxy steamrolls right over him, “ -you also have to manage _not_ to trip over your own feet in front him as well as every twelve-year-old at Hogwarts?”

Eggsy pauses, and bites his lip; she’s got a point. His eyebrows twitch into a frown, but he looks up at Roxy with his lips twisted into a wry smile. “Good thing we’ve got a good instructor then, huh?”

 

Professor Hart’s dance lessons for the second years are in the Great Hall, and after dinner - half an hour before the lessons are to begin - Eggsy and Roxy help him set up the space. The heavier lifting is Professor Hart’s doing; he magically pushes the long house tables to the walls, spelling the benches and stools to stack themselves in neat, orderly rows on top of the tables to make as much room as possible for them to use. The four house banners hanging high above them flutter and ruffle from the breeze as various pieces of wooden furniture float to and fro. Standing in the center, Professor Hart is like a conductor of an orchestra, helping to guide everything to its proper place and making sure the stacks of chairs are stable enough so that they won’t fall down on the students below while they’re dancing.

Eggsy and Roxy help sweep with their wands once the center of the room is cleared; there’s not much in the way of dust and debris from dinner, aside from a few things that the Hogwarts house-elves had missed. The Great Hall is already rather clean in the first place, in preparation for the holiday decorations that the Professors will be hanging in less than a week’s time. Eggsy looks up from his sweeping to find that the vaulted, magical ceiling is showing a night sky of muted purple-grey clouds, gentle snowflakes falling softly but disappearing long before they reach the tops of their heads.

“Look, Rox,” he says, nudging her in the side with his elbow and nodding up to the magical snowfall. Roxy’s eyes widen with delight at the sight of it, and she raises a hand up to attempt to catch some in her outstretched palm.

“How festive,” she flashes him a grin before turning back to her sweeping, though she glances up at the ceiling now and again as she gets further away, sweeping towards the other end of the hall.

“Can’t wait ‘til it’s really snowing outside,” Eggsy calls to her, his voice echoing in the cavernous room, “and for the Great Hall to be decorated, of course - then it’ll feel like the holiday season proper, you know?”

“Soon enough, Eggsy,” Professor Hart says, wiping his hands together to shake away the dust from moving all of the furniture. “Our hard-working grounds-keeper has already selected the evergreen trees that we’ll bring inside and decorate, or so I hear. Professor Ashwicke has been working on some particularly lovely charms to decorate with, too; I’m sure it will be quite the sight to see, this coming Sunday.”

Eggsy and Roxy shoot each other looks when the professor turns his back; from Roxy’s matching grin and the sparkle in her eye, Eggsy can tells she’s as excited about the prospect of the Great Hall decorated for the holidays as he is.

“Perhaps it’ll snow before our next trip to Hogsmeade,” she suggests, short heels clicking as they turn towards the front of the hall, where the first few students are beginning to gather in clusters, chattering amongst themselves excitedly. The second years are so small, Eggsy thinks - though he knows he was once one, and remembers quite well the feeling of looking up to the older, wiser, _taller_ students in the years above him. Grouped together in little circles, eyes bright and curious, occasionally whispering to each other - they remind him of Daisy, of the adorable and fascinated little girl that she is, and the bright Hogwarts student she’ll make one day.

“Hope so,” Eggsy replies, smiling broadly. He can’t help himself; as nervous as he’d been over the past week about these lessons, especially once Roxy had mentioned what kind of audience they’d have, now he can’t wait to get started. There’s a lot of joy in ringing in the holidays with friends, being able to have one big party to celebrate the season and the time away from school and back with family - and yeah, even the dancing, no matter how skilled or not.

As the second year students fill the front of the Great Hall, Eggsy has to force himself to not constantly watch the Professor. There’s no way he could have or _would_ have mentioned it to Professor Hart’s face, but there’s a definite reason the Headmaster chose him to instruct the dance lessons: of all the teachers, Professor Hart is by far the one with the most grace and class, and if anyone could inspire the young students of Hogwarts to give dancing an honest try, it’s him. Eggsy isn’t surprised at the slightest to see how big of a crowd has already gathered; the curious murmurings of the students and their shuffling feet fill the Great Hall with an excited buzz. There are even some older students scattered among the second years - wanting to either brush up on their dancing skills or there because Professor Hart is teaching.

That’s not to mention how Professor Hart looks dancing. Eggsy remembers being impressed at previous Yule Balls at how effortless, fluid and poised he’d been twirling Professor Hadley or Professor Trinia - and on one occasion, Merlin himself - in neat circles around the dance floor. Now that, well - Eggsy glances across the hall to where Professor Hart is stooped over the magical phonograph and resolutely does _not_ look at his robed arse - now that Eggsy knows Professor Hart better, he has a feeling that his appreciation for his dancing skills has only increased.

“All right,” Professor Hart’s voice cuts through the murmurs echoing in the Great Hall, stepping down the front stairs and towards the body of students clustered together along the edges of the room. “Thank you all for coming and showing an interest in tonight’s lesson - dance, so that we might be prepared for the Yule Ball in a few weeks’ time.”

His shoes click on the worn stone as he takes slow, measured steps towards the middle of the now-open room. The second years part like water to let him pass through their crowd so that he can stand at the very center of the Great Hall, underneath the cavernous, snowing ceiling. Eggsy can’t help but bite back a smile; the professor always did have a bit of a flair for the dramatic, even if he himself would deny the fact. Professor Hart adjusts the cuffs of his robes as he strolls out a little further, and then turns back to the flock of curious, wide-eyed second years, beckoning with one hand for them to join him, to step out onto the open makeshift dance floor. They come forward in a shuffling mass, tentatively at first. Still: Professor Hart is one of the Hogwarts students’ favorite professors, and they appear to be excited to learn despite their nervousness.

“The most important thing you should know,” Professor Hart says, clasping his hands behind his back and smiling at his short audience, “is that regardless of how good you are at dancing, it can still be a lot of fun. I hope to at least show you some basic steps to get you started;  you’ll get even more practice next week and at the ball itself. Even if you can’t master what I’ve shown you in two lessons I think, at the least, you’ll be able to have a good time at the ball. It is a party, after all.” There’s a ripple of agreement amongst the second years, and they grin back at Professor Hart at the mention of the ball - it’s all anyone’s been talking about for nearly a week, now that the excitement of Hufflepuff’s Quidditch win has died down.

“Besides - if Eggsy here can manage to learn it, I have no doubt that all of you will be able to.”

“Oi!” Eggsy snaps his gaze to Professor Hart when he hears his name, pulled out of his thoughts. He’d been scanning the groups of second years to see if he recognized any Hufflepuff faces. Eggsy grins, though, despite the jab - Professor Hart is grinning back at him, amused, and already the younger students look more relaxed. “I’m not _that_ bad of a dancer!”

“We’ll see about that,” Professor Hart tilts his head, giving Eggsy a wink that makes his heart trip over itself with surprise. He turns back to the second years to continue his introduction to the subject, but for a few moments Eggsy can barely hear what he says over the thudding of his heart in his ears.

Professor Hart had winked at Eggsy before - memorably at the Sorting feast, the first night of the term just a few months ago - but his heart hadn’t pounded quite like _this_ , then. Eggsy tries to subtly tug at his collar, hoping that the blush heating his face passes off as mild embarrassment.

It might to the second years, at least, but not to Roxy; she nudges him in the side as Professor Hart keeps talking, an impish look on her face that Eggsy realizes, with a bit of a sinking stomach, means that she’d caught exactly what had just transpired. He doesn’t groan - there’s no need to draw any more attention to himself, _Merlin’s beard_ \- but it’s a close thing. Roxy takes a long side-step closer, until she can lean in to murmur into his ear, the long hair of her ponytail tickling the back of his neck.

“Saw that,” she hums, sly amusement in the tone of her voice, the curl of her lip, the dimple in one cheek that always seems to appear at Eggsy’s expense.

“What’re you looking so amused for?” he mutters back with a huff, fidgeting with his own robe again. “Aren’t you on Team ‘ _Eggsy, this isn’t a good idea - Eggsy, there are lines that aren’t meant to be crossed_ ’?”

Roxy snorts, arching one perfect eyebrow and turning to look at Professor Hart in the center of the room again. He’s still talking to the second years - who are, admittedly, looking more and more excited about the prospect of learning to dance, more than Eggsy had thought possible. “I am generally on Team ‘ _Eggsy, no_ ’ but you forget that I’m also on Team ‘ _Eggsy gets flustered_.’”

“Rude,” Eggsy replies, pouting, and Roxy snickers.

“Here to help me,” Professor Hart says, half-turning to Roxy and Eggsy standing at the side of the Great Hall, “Are some of my seventh year students; Miss Morton and Mr Unwin will be doing some demonstrations for us, as well as walking around with me to help you as you practice.”

There’s a sharp jab of an elbow in his side, courtesy of Roxy - like he doesn’t know what to do, _honestly_ \- and they wave at the second years, whose eyes are a little wide at the sight of the older students. Even with one year of Hogwarts under their belt, the second years are still very impressed with the eldest class, though Roxy’s status as a Gryffindor prefect and Eggsy on the Hufflepuff Quidditch team certainly make them more notable.

Professor Hart motions for them to join him in the middle of the dance floor and obediently they do, standing to face the second years. Eggsy smiles at them, glancing through the crowd again - he’s pretty sure he sees the red-headed Hufflepuff girl that had sat next to him at breakfast a week back and chatted his ear off about Care of Magical Creatures the entire time, as well as a few other Hufflepuff house-mates. The second years are a little starry-eyed, but he can already feel sweat prickling at the back of his neck, nerves settling in the pit of his stomach. Eggsy clenches one hand into a fist and releases it, willing the coil of nervousness in his spine to loosen and the tension to melt away. Professor Hart glances over to them, eyes lingering on Eggsy’s, and his heart jumps to his throat, unbidden; it’s all he can do to give a nervous smile in return.

“If you don’t mind…” Professor Hart says, gesturing to the open floor behind them with a wave and then stepping away, through the crowd of students and up the stairs to set the needle on the magical phonograph. Its brass bell, intricately embossed and polished to a radiant shine, resonates with the full sound of a band as the music starts. The beat is a little bit swing, overlaid with the smooth, round tones of a trumpet and, lower, trombone; the introduction is a slow, a saxophone crooning in along with something Eggsy’s never heard before - but he assumes it’s a magical, wizarding instrument. Professor Hart folds his hands behind his back, again, nodding for Eggsy and Roxy to begin, an encouraging smile on his lips. Eggsy swallows.

“It’ll be fine,” Roxy answers his unspoken comment softly, turning to face him and taking one of his hands in her smaller one, settling her other hand on his robed shoulder. As if by muscle memory, Eggsy lifts their joined hands and rests the other on the rise of Roxy’s waist, willing his shoulders to loosen and relax. Roxy smiles up at him, encouraging and fond. “They’re second years, remember - they’ll be impressed with anything.”

“They’re not the ones I’m worried about impressing,” Eggsy admits grudgingly, and before Roxy can respond he moves them forward, guides them through the first few steps of the dance in a slow glide.

Roxy had been the one to teach him to dance; well, it had been Professor Lance teaching the year that they were second years, but his loud personality and penchant for quick, brassy music and dances with too many steps had prevented anything from sticking in Eggsy’s mind. That, and a younger, smaller Eggsy had been more coltish than confident in his own body. But Roxy had refused to give up on him,- by then, they had been best friends for a little more than a year - and she’d cajoled him into practicing whenever they had a free moment before the Yule Ball. They danced in the chilly cloisters on weekend afternoons, when the other students were studying or still on their way back from Hogsmeade, the empty Gryffindor Common room when they stayed up late to work on their Astronomy homework, the kitchens after they’d had an after-homework snack of biscuits and tea provided by fond and accommodating house-elves. She’d never been shy about the fact that she grew up in an old wizarding family - in fact, her knowledge of wizarding customs and magical history had been Eggsy’s introduction into the magical world more than anything else, seeing as his mother rarely talked about magic. Formal dance had been one of the many things she’d learned at a young age, expected of her in her family’s upper-class wizarding society and its upper-crust circles.

The memories of Roxy - taller than him, back in second year - come back to Eggsy all at once: Roxy walking him through the steps to a basic dance, showing him where to put his hands and how to move his feet, keeping them upright when he stumbled on the cobbled stones in his clumsiness. His muscle memory filling in the gaps where Eggsy can’t quite remember the steps, and his nerves begin to settle as they make slow circles of the Great Hall dance floo. Roxy had had to teach him how to lead, despite being the follower in the dance - quite a feat, now that Eggsy thinks on it. He’ll have to remember to thank her, later - he’s not falling flat on his face now thanks to her tutelage. In fact, they’re making a pretty respectable show of it, slowly waltzing to the beat of the smooth, dreamy music.

Roxy smiles at him, clearly feeling the tension leaving his arms as the grip of his fingers on her waist lightens, his steps more and more confident with every stride. There’s a twinkle in her eye, and Eggsy gets the feeling she’s remembering the same thing that he is, and his heart swells. He’s out here, demonstrating for the second years how to dance - but more importantly, how to have fun and not worry about being perfect, or not looking daft - and he’s been too lost in his own nervousness to take his own advice.

There’s an uptick in the tempo, and the music slides from a steady waltz into something with a little more pep, and Eggsy grins down at Roxy as they settle into the new beat with more energy than before.

“Want to have some fun with it?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow, and she gives him a brilliant smile of her own.

“Thought you’d never ask,” she says, dimple in one cheek as she winks at him. She squeezes his hand in hers, trips a few quick steps that leaves Eggsy briefly fumbling, and in the midst of a spin she takes the lead, guiding him into a quick-step that, amazingly, doesn’t have him falling over his own feet. His first few backwards steps are uncomfortable, but Roxy’s good at this - she steers with her body, uses her weight and body language to shift them, two side-steps and then back around, and Eggsy’s feeling the swing in the beat more confidently by the time they repeat the pattern a second time.

“Very good!” Professor Hart calls from the staircase, clapping - which turns into a smattering of applause from the second years. As Roxy guides them to a stop Eggsy barely manages to avoid stepping on her toes. It puts him off-balance, though, forcing Roxy to pull him upright again as he wobbles backwards - but they stay standing, laughing and clutching at each other before parting, giving a half-bow to the small crowd.

“Very good, indeed,” Professor Hart repeats, waving a hand to wandlessly stop the music before clattering down the stairs. His robe billows out behind him as he descends and joins them on the dance floor, giving them both a clap on the shoulder and a nod ‘well done’ before ushering them to step off to the side. With a smile he clasps his hands together, calling out, “Now - let’s spread out and pair off, and we’ll work through some basic moves together. Go on - fill the whole Hall, don’t be shy!”

The Great Hall swells with noise again as the second years swarm like bees amongst themselves, pairing off and then scattering onto the empty floor. There’s plenty of space in the vast room, with all of the tables and chairs pushed to the side. When they’ve all gotten into place, shuffling and a little nervous again, Professor Hart walks them through what it means to be leading and following, how to hold your partner’s hand and where to place the other - and after that, the basic steps to a nice, slow-tempoed song.

Eggsy watches, equal parts curious and fascinated, unabashed that he’s staring even though Roxy must know it - what else is there to do, besides? But for once he’s in one of Professor Hart’s lessons and isn’t quite a student; it’s the first time he’s thought about - and appreciated - that Professor Hart is really quite skilled at what he does. The dancing he’s seen before on several occasions, but watching Professor Hart coax the second years into taking their first few steps as dancers together, counting aloud to the beat of the music and showing them himself, it’s clear that he’s very good with the young students.

Defense Against the Dark Arts class is always fascinating, under his instruction, but the second years require something different than the seventh year NEWT students; as Eggsy observes, he can sense that Professor Hart knows it, adapts his teaching method to his younger - and more nervous - audience. Eggsy watches Professor Hart makes a slow circle of the room as the music starts up again, still counting off the steps aloud, complimenting pairs here and there and making suggestions to some of the others in his calm, friendly tone.

“He’s good, isn’t he,” Roxy looks up at him from where she’s leaning against one of the stacks of stools, eyes narrowed in assessment, gauging him - but not in an unfriendly way.

“He is,” Eggsy agrees, crossing his arms over his chest. The second years move together en masse - more or less; some are a few beats ahead or behind, but they’ve pretty much got the hang of the basic steps, and the lesson isn’t even half over. Moving through the clusters of dancers, Professor Hart is more than a head above them and easy to spot, pausing to reach down and set his hand on the shoulder of one student, saying something quietly to the pair and pointing down, presumably at his own feet, to show them something. Eggsy’s heart clenches in his chest at the sight of Professor Hart’s warm smile, the obvious fondness with which he treats each student no matter how well they’re dancing.

He almost jolts out of his skin in surprise when Professor Hart looks up at him, just then, meeting Eggsy’s eyes across the Great Hall and aiming that smile at him. Roxy, preternaturally attuned to Eggsy as she is - or, he thinks lamely, perhaps she just has eyes - huffs as Eggsy momentarily tenses before smiling back. Eggsy’s cheeks heat, but he ignores it; Professor Hart’s waving him over with one hand, eyes twinkling behind the lenses of his glasses, and Eggsy’s feet start moving before he consciously considers it. Wading through the dancing second years proves a little trickier than anticipated - he doesn’t want to tread on any small feet, or interrupt any of them now that they’ve found a groove and continue to practice. He ends up weaving around the dancing couples, overhearing snatches of conversation as he makes his way across to Professor Hart - most of it lighthearted banter or genial complaining, though even that seems to be as much friendly ribbing as anything else. He grins, pleased that the second years seem to be enjoying themselves, and arrives at Professor Hart’s side with a wide smile on his face.

The rest of the lesson flies by, after that; Professor Hart has Eggsy demonstrate various steps to the students, and after a few minutes they call Roxy over so that the pair of them can show off a few variations on the basic moves the second years already learned. The group of them end up making a circuit of the room together, pausing here and there, and between the fun of trading off leading with Roxy and basking in Professor Hart’s capable, warm teaching, the end of the evening comes faster than Eggsy expected.

“We’ll meet back here at the same time a week from tonight,” Professor Hart calls after the second years as they once again clump into groups of friends and house-mates, filtering out of the Great Hall in chattering flocks and leaving the room empty once more. Many thank Professor Hart and some of them are far too distracted to do anything more than wave, and the Great Hall quiets as their echoing voices retreat into the various recesses of the castle.

The professor turns to the two of them, smiling tiredly. “That went rather well,” he says, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “They seem to have the basics down already, which sets the stage very well for next week’s lesson. Thank you both for your help - the second years seem to have taken to dancing, after all.”

“Told you so,” Eggsy smirks, raising his eyebrows.

“My feet didn’t even get terribly trodden on, too, which is about as much as I can ask for,” Professor Hart continues, looking down at his shoes - which are barely scuffed at all from the activity.

“Speak for yourself,” Roxy nudges Eggsy in the side, lightheartedly, and their laughter rings in the ceiling of the Great Hall over Eggsy’s mild complaints.

 

That weekend, the first snowfall of the season settles over Hogwarts, blanketing the castle and the grounds and the forest beyond in a layer of soft, sparkling white. Eggsy wakes up to it, which is the best way to find out that it’s snowing: the slow realization that the quiet outside isn’t just from the early hour, but because the world is hushed, muted with the falling snow. Eggsy rolls over onto his stomach to peer out the narrow window above his bunk, dragging the duvet with him to protect against the chill. The window’s panes are fogged, thin sketch-lines of frost criss-crossing its surface and a respectable coating of snow built up on the outer sill and iron filigree. He leans up to breathe on the glass and wipe away the layer of condensation with the heel of his hand, leaving it streaky but clear enough to peer out at the castle grounds.

It’s gorgeous, Hogwarts in the snow; there’s a picturesque curl of smoke coming from the grounds-keeper’s cottage, windows lit rosy-gold from within, a layer of white like icing on the cottage’s sloped roof. Beyond it Eggsy can see the frozen surface of the lake, reflecting the pale arms of the bare trees along its shore, crusted with a fine layer of snow and ice that make them gleam. There’s a bit of a breeze, battering the snowflakes to and fro, but that doesn’t stop a few intrepid students from going outside and playing in the fresh snowfall - even from the angle of his window, Eggsy can spot the small, dark silhouettes of their robes, far away as they are. His heart swells, and despite the slight chill of the castle air that nips at his nose he tumbles out of bed, delighted with the day already.

The common room is warmer - no doubt because of the roaring fire in the hearth, surrounded by students with open books and cards for exploding snap - and the Great Hall is bustling with excitement when he goes up for breakfast a little earlier than usual. The excitement over the snow is infectious. The students coming in from the weather wringing out their soggy mittens with charms and warming their hands and faces with big mugs of cinnamon-spiced hot cocoa or milky tea, smiling broadly and chatting about their adventures. They track in dirty snow and leave puddles in the entryway as it melts, but no one seems to mind - even the professors appear to be in high spirits at the surprise change in weather. As he heads to the Hufflepuff table, Eggsy overhears Ashwicke talking about the decoration charms he’d finally finished for setting up the Great Hall for the holiday later that afternoon - which makes Eggsy nearly double-take with surprise, because the quiet, patience audience to his explanations is Professor Lance, and isn’t _that_ a first. He briefly wonders if someone put a tongue-tying hex on the Potions Master, but as he pulls a stool up to the Hufflepuff table he squints a little closer. It isn’t hard to see the obvious joy Professor Ashwicke has about his craft, talking with his hands as he describes something to do with whatever’s going to be magically floating in the Great Hall; his face is alight with enthusiasm, and Professor Lance barely blinks, unable to pull his gaze away.

Eggsy shakes his head, mouth twitching up into a smile. It’s only a matter of time. Maybe, with the holidays, things will finally be set in motion between those two.

Roxy sits down across from him just as he’s tucking into his breakfast, a healthy portion of warm food to combat the chilly weather. She slides a mug of hot chocolate to him - identical to the one in her hand - and grins, sipping at her mug as she waits for him to chew. Aside from the way her foot bounces impatiently against his underneath the table, she’s the picture of patience.

“I finished my Transfiguration scroll early last night,” she says, resting her chin in her hand casually. “I’ve got nothing to do until half-three.”

A grin pulls at the corner of Eggsy’s mouth and he picks up the mug of hot chocolate, sniffing it curiously before taking a sip - perfect. His best friend knows him well. “Fancy rolling around in the snow like first years, then?”

“I was hoping you’d be up for it,” she smiles, taking another pull from her mug and wiping at the chocolate that clings to her upper lip. “I’m invoking a ‘no magic’ rule if you start a snowball fight, though - no need to risk taking out anyone’s eye.”

“Fine by me,” he reaches out to tap his mug to hers, unable to resist giving her a wink. “Sure you should be getting into snowball fights, Miss Prefect? You’re supposed to be setting a good example and all that.”

Roxy rolls her eyes. “We’re seventh years, Eggsy - and this is the first snowfall. When is there a better time to just relax and have a little fun?”

Eggsy takes in her arched eyebrow and the sly smirk on her lips, determination set in the cheerful - and mischievous - sparkle in her eye, and finds that he really can’t argue with that.

A large group of them ends up reconvening in the entryway once they’ve finished with breakfast, making a quick trip to their respective dormitories to dress for the weather. The snow is still falling heavily, with several inches upon the ground, and they pull on boots and scarves and jumpers and hats to combat the cold. They reconvene by the Great Hall door, a hodgepodge group of seventh years: a mix of friends from different houses, overlapping from several NEWT classes, friends-of-friends and Quidditch teammates and study partners. Jamal and Ryan even join them at the last moment, clad in Hufflepuff-striped hats and scarves, on their way outside to look for Eggsy themselves. They make a cheerful group, high on the natural excitement of the snowfall and the warmth of cocoa in their bellies, ready to escape the confines of the castle and their studies for the afternoon to have a little fun. Eggsy can barely see Roxy’s smile over the top of her chunky red scarf, though her hat with the golden pompom on top he’d recognize anywhere - he bought it for her. She’s with Sophie, but when they set out as a group Roxy links her arms with his as well as the Slytherin’s. They head out onto the white castle lawns in a merry band, snow crunching in a pleasantly fresh, soft-crushed way underfoot.

The cold stings a little at their exposed noses and cheeks, turning them rosy pink within minutes of being outside, but that doesn’t stop them from having fun. Someone starts a snowball fight after all - Eggsy doesn’t see who, but he’d put his money on Jen from their DADA class, who’s got quite the arm from playing muggle sports. It’s chaotically fun and not a little vicious until a group of third years come across them and join in, at which point they turn down the ferocity. Tucked behind a makeshift snow bulwark near the foot of the castle, patting snowballs into roughly round shapes with his waterlogged mittens, Eggsy can’t help but think that this is the most fun he’s had in a while.

 

The decoration of the Great Hall that evening is a sight to challenge the beauty of the wintry scene outside. Eggsy’s finally warm and dry again - though he can’t say the same for his boots or his jumper, since Roxy had cheated and used magic to get snow down the back of it, laughing all the while - and when he returns to the Great Hall for dinner, the decoration is already well underway.

There are two massive pine trees from the edges of the Forbidden Forest on either side of the Great Hall, framing the stairs leading up to the Professor’s table; Ashwicke stands on a high ladder in front of one of them, flicking his wand in quick, sharp strokes to clear away any snow that lingers on the needled branches so that they are dry and ready to decorate. High above them on her broom, Madam Trinia magically hangs boughs of twined holly and ivy and pine greens, pinning them in place so that they make even swoops between the arched rafters. The garlands drip with silvery, hair-fine tinsel, studded with a variety of holiday decorations: fat red baubles that are polished to a mirror finish, ornaments in the shape of stars and crescent moons and fluttering snitches. Everything gleams in the cheery firelight of the lit sconces and candles and fireplaces, the room softly glowing with warmth.

Even in the midst of all the other decorations, the largest tree behind the Professor’s table is impressive and captivating to behold. Several of the professors are floating ornaments and other decorations into its high branches, the golden star on top already in place and glimmering with what Eggsy imagines must be _actual_ pixie dust. Professor Hart stands at its base, helping by pulling ornaments from a large box and tapping them gently with the tip of his wand, guiding them to float upwards and hook securely onto the massive branches of the tree above. Someone - possibly Ashwicke - set a snow charm above the center tree, and gentle flakes float down like glitter and settle on the topmost branches. That, in combination with the magical snowing effect of the ceiling of the Great Hall and the real flurries still coming down outside, create a wintry atmosphere that more than inspires holiday joy in the hearts of the students and staff.

Eggsy chooses a seat at the Hufflepuff table that allows him to watch the decorations go up, which isn’t hard; every corner of the room, high and low, is being decorated for the holidays by one professor or another. The Headmaster oversees everything, pushing his glasses up on occasion as he watches the room come together, glancing between the long parchment checklist on his clipboard and Professor Ashwicke, perched precariously on a ladder.

“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” Jamal elbows Eggsy gently, and it snaps him out of his thoughts; he hadn’t even heard his fellow Hufflepuff sit down. He nods to Ryan as he takes an empty stool across from them. “And it couldn’t have been better timed, what with the snow today and all.”

“Professor Gawain said he knew it was going to snow - could tell by how the animals were acting in Care of Magical Creatures on Friday,” Ryan says, pouring himself a healthy goblet of warm cider and taking a drink. His nose is still pink from the cold outside. “Then again, maybe he was just talking with the Divinations Professor before we had class.”

“I don’t know about you, lads, but I been ready for the holidays since Hufflepuff won the Quidditch match,” Eggsy admits, flashing them each a grin, “Another reason to celebrate, eh? And it means exam time, but we get a holiday after that, at least. I’m looking forward to having the break and going home, again.”

They pause as Madam Trinia flies slowly over them with a wreath in hand to drape carefully around the Hufflepuff crest on the wall; it’s decorated with golden sprigs of winter flowers and red holly berries from the Herbology greenhouses, striped yellow-and-black ribbons tied into neat, puffy bows. She places it so that the crest is perfectly centered, flicking her wand so that the tails of the largest gold bow at the bottom drape along the wall.

“Don’t forget about the Ball, first,” Ryan reminds him, once she’s floated down to the end of the Great Hall to pick up the next wreath. “Wouldn’t be the holidays at Hogwarts without a Yule Ball, and I’ll be ready for it if I manage to survive my exams.”

“Got a date yet?” Jamal asks, smirking.

“Not yet,” Ryan says glumly, pulling apart a roll and slathering it with butter with perhaps more drama than necessary, “Still a few weeks off, though. I’ve got time.”

“Me neither,” Eggsy says, when Jamal turns to him questioningly. “Figured we’d all go as a group? More fun that way, besides, rather than trying to figure out pairing off.”

“So Roxy’s got a date?” Jamal, eyebrows rising towards his hairline. “You two always go to the Ball together, if neither of you get dates.”

“She’s got a date, all right,” Eggsy smiles, “Or will, if she gets her act together and asks. Don’t worry - I’ll make sure she does, even if it leaves me without. We’ll have fun as a group, or something, yeah?”

His friends nod at this, carrying on the conversation and ribbing each other about finding dates - and who would possibly agree to go with the other to the Yule Ball. Eggsy smiles at their chatter but can’t keep his mind from drifting, absorbed in looking around the Great Hall at the magnificent decorations and outside at the fluttering, cheerful snow.

He can’t tell his friends that the person he’d most want to ask is the last person he’d be able to actually go with.

 

The second Thursday evening dance lesson goes as well as the first; to Eggsy’s personal delight and the obvious satisfaction of Professor Hart. Having only two lessons to teach the second year students to dance is asking a lot, but between their enthusiasm and the good music, they’re well prepared for the Ball a few weeks away. Professor Hart goes over what they’d learned the previous week - from the coordination of some of the students, it’s clear that they spent some time away from their studies to practice - and he has Roxy and Eggsy demonstrate some more complicated steps to different songs as he teaches. He has the second years switch partners several times, changing up the kinds of music from the magical phonograph - including some upbeat, cheerful holiday tunes that everyone recognizes with delight.

Eggsy manages to tread on Roxy’s toes once or twice by accident, to her half-hearted glares; he apologizes but never quite manages to get some of the steps down, especially to the faster jigs and more traditional line-dances that they do later in the evening, as a break from the slower, mellower songs. He still has fun, though - and from the excited chatter of the second years as they exit the hall that night, he can say the same for them as well.

But Eggsy’s mouth runs away from him the next week, sitting by the side of the crackling, spark-spitting fireplace in Professor Hart’s office. It’s comfortably warm; Eggsy has a jumper on underneath his parted robe, one that Roxy had gotten him for a gift, and the early darkness of the winter afternoon coupled with the companionable silence has time stretching out long and slow. Eggsy’s eyelids droop and he yawns, feeling and hearing his jaw crack at the movement, and stretches in the wingback chair he’s dangerously come to think of as _his_. Professor Hart doesn’t look up at the squeaking of his chair, barely glances his way when Eggsy adjusts himself to sit cross-legged, even though it puts his feet on the seat of the chair - ungentlemanly, as he’d usually say. But Professor Hart is engrossed in the current book he’s reading, one that he had to coax open and pay flatteries too before it would stop trying to chew on the sleeve of his robe, so Eggsy tries not to let it bother him.

His mind wanders, eyes unfocused on his own book in his lap; as much as he enjoys Charms, there’s only so much he can absorb about the proper notation of wand movements and their relation to correctly casting charms before his eyes start to glaze and the words blur together - especially this close to their approaching exam week. He props his elbow up in the center of the book, careful not to crease the delicate parchment pages, and lets his gaze drift about the room to take a quick break from the reading.

Eggsy doesn’t start with Professor Hart; he lets his eyes run across the fireplace mantle, watching the reflection of the flames flicker and dance in the various objects Professor Hart keeps there: a small decanter of amber-colored liquid; a knight from a wizarding chess set that looks to be made of brilliant, blood-red cinnabar; a set of intricately painted gold-and-red cups no bigger than shot glasses, but accompanied by a wrought silver teapot with a dragon for a spout; a tarnished instrument that looks like the armillary spheres from the Astronomy Tower, but annotated with a script Eggsy’s never seen before. There are all sorts of such trinkets on the bookshelves, some serving as bookends and others tucked into the spare spaces above the shorter tomes. He’s seen them all before, of course, but only gave thought to a few of them - usually, his attention is arrested by the office’s other occupant.

He does let himself look, then; Professor Hart is so absorbed in his reading that he barely blinks, carefully marking the passages he wants to use for one of his lectures. Like this, in the Professor-zen state he sometimes achieves, his magic becomes even more of an extension of himself, wandless and wordless, like an extra set of hands. He runs out of parchment to take notes on, as Eggsy silently studies him, and a new sheaf of it uncurls from a nearby stack like an obedient snake, laying itself over the previous, note-covered page just as Harry dips his quill into the inkwell again, about to jot something down. It’s seamless, apparently effortless - and Eggsy can’t help but admire the calm confidence of it, how in control Professor Hart is of himself and his world.

“You’re staring, again,” Professor Hart murmurs, not looking away from his book. Eggsy barely restrains himself from jumping out of his skin.

“You’re doing wandless magic - again,” he replies, and at that Professor Hart does glance up, peering at Eggsy through his glasses and then looking down at his desk, at the little objects that skitter, bug-like, at his unconscious bidding.

“You could tell me to stop, if it’s distracting you from your studies,” he suggests, pushing his glasses further up his nose and rolling back the sleeves of his robe - it is quite warm, after all. He doesn’t suggest that Eggsy finds another place to spend his time, though, which has Eggsy’s heart tripping over itself in his chest.

“’S not that it’s a distraction,” Eggsy says, digging his fingers into the thick cable-knit of his jumper, shifting in his seat again as Professor Hart meets his eyes. “It’s just - I want to be that confident and seamless with my magic, someday, so in touch with it that it’s like an extension of my fingers.”

“We  _ will  _ be learning some wandless and nonverbal magic in Defense, as we get closer to your NEWTs,” Professor Hart tips his head, and Eggsy watches helplessly as a single curl tumbles out of the perfectly combed part in his hair and over the side of his forehead. “But, I’m sure, that’s not quite what you mean.”

“Yeah,” Eggsy smiles thinly, “Guess that’s the kind of magic that just comes with time, yeah? Right now, I can barely do that extra waltz-step thing you showed us last week without stepping on Roxy’s toes every bloody time.”

Professor Hart looks at him, then, openly studying his face, meeting his eyes after a moment - and Eggsy finds his breath lodged in his chest, unable to say or do anything besides swallow down the sudden lump in his throat. He can’t put his finger on what - on what’s _different_ about this time, from all the other times that Professor Hart has looked at him and set his heart pounding, and he can’t come up with any kind of answer before Professor Hart calmly sets down his quill in the inkwell and says, “Well, there’s something we can do about that, at least.”

“What?” Eggsy blinks.

“There’s something we can do to help your dancing, tonight, if nothing else,” Professor Hart elaborates, and pushes away from his desk to stand, thumbing open the button at the neck of his robe and pulling it off, draping it over the back of his desk chair. Eggsy stares, again. “Come on, up you get. I don’t know about you, but I could use a good stretch.”

Eggsy stands, nerves starting to coil in his stomach, running along his spine as his heart kicks into a higher gear. He tips his book into the empty seat he’s just vacated, marking his page for later - though he’s sure, now, that he won’t remember a damned word on the page if what he think is about to happen really  _ is _ about to happen. 

“I’m not sure your office is big enough for this, Professor,” he says, trying to wipe his palms on the legs of his trousers without drawing too much attention to his nervousness. After a moment he decides to shed his dark school robe as well, already warm under the collar - and they haven’t even started yet.

“Oh ye of little faith,” Professor Hart’s lips turn up in a smirk, “As if you haven’t seen me do this before - or remembered that I can do Transfigurations, among other things not related to the Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

With a flick of his wand, the Eggsy’s armchair is the size of one belonging to a dollhouse, the textbook he’d placed on the cushioned seat now so small its text could only be read with a magnifying glass. Professor Hart swishes and flicks his wand again, and the armchair levitates over to sit on the mantle, next to the chess knight - which could now practically _use_ the chair, were it not on its prancing horse. He doesn’t try to shrink his desk and the overflowing stacks of books and parchment on its surface, lest he create an avalanche of fluttering paper, but he slides his own chair and the desk backwards to the furthest wall underneath the window, leaving a considerable amount of the cozy office’s floor space open to their use.

Eggsy scuffs his toe against the exposed carpet - an intricate design he’d seen barely half of, when the desk and chairs had covered the central medallion of the weave - and wills his heart to slow its thunderous pace in his chest as Professor Hart steps closer with a warm smile. He pulls his shoulders back and straightens, giving Professor Hart a smile in return that wavers and doesn’t sit quite right because of the fluttering nerves in his stomach.  

“Leading or following?” Professor Hart asks, and Eggsy blinks at him for a moment, having barely heard the words over the roaring of his heart in his ears.

“I’m sorry?”

“Is it the steps while leading or following that trip you up?” he says, eyes twinkling with amusement behind the lenses of his glasses. 

“Erm - following,” Eggsy says with a half-shrug, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Something inside him clenches again at the sight of Professor Hart’s easy smile, hand outstretched to beckon him closer, within reach.  


“I’m not going to bite, Eggsy,” Professor Hart chuckles at Eggsy’s hesitance - which, yeah, they’ve gotten quite close over  the past few months, all those afternoons together grading or debating or doing nothing but sitting in companionable silence as they both read. He has nothing to be hesitant about.

Except maybe he does want Professor Hart to bite, and that’s part of the problem.

But he takes a breath and steps forward, resolutely pressing his jumbled thoughts and hesitance aside to put his hand in Professor Hart’s upturned palm.

He’s heard of magical feedback loops, of contact-dependent spells that are set off when two things touch, the moment of contact between wizards or witches with compatible magic where they feel a flow through their fingertips like nothing they’ve ever experienced before. But this is just - his hand is a little clammy in Professor Hart’s sure grip, and after a moment he squeezes Eggsy’s hand reassuringly before turning their hands, clasping Eggsy’s right hand in the traditional dance position and raising it at their sides.

And that’s when there’s a spark, when their palms touch for the first time; a zing of magic that isn’t unlike touching something metal after walking around on carpet in thick socks. Magic arcs between their fingers in a bright jolt that has Eggsy’s hand twitching, a shiver running up and down his back in quick succession as the fine hair at the nape of his neck stands on end. He glances from where their hands are still joined up into Professor Hart’s face; from his expression of curious perplexity, he’d felt it too.

There’s a beat of silence as they look at each other, eyebrows drawn in confusion, before Professor Hart shakes himself out of his thoughts and says, “Oh - right, music.”

He doesn't even let go of Eggsy's hand; he snaps with his unoccupied hand and somewhere behind his desk the phonograph snaps to life, knocking over a few dusty books as it scurries out of its spot against the wall and hops onto the desk, creasing and bending various sheets of parchment as it finds a place to settle, turning around several times, dog-like. Eggsy has to go up on his tip-toes to watch it over the height of Professor Hart's shoulder; he isn't too much taller, and Eggsy's certainly grown in height in the past year, but he's tall enough that Eggsy's eyes are just at his shoulder-level. He sees Professor Hart grinning out of the corner of his eye as he tilts forward a little to watch the phonograph - it's found a stable spot and huffs a little, like an asthmatic dog, before the textured disc on its back begins to slowly spin and the gold-hewn needle comes down to run in its grooves. 

It's then, as the music swells into being, that Eggsy loses his balance on his toes. He tips forward unsteadily, preemptively wincing at the inevitable collision of his nose with the hard line of Professor Hart's shoulder. But it doesn't come; Professor Hart puts a steadying hand on his hip so that they don't quite fall into each other. His hand shifts to the small of Eggsy's back once it's clear that he's fine on his feet. It's nearly the proper dance position, Eggsy thinks dizzily, his face heating as he meets Professor Hart's gaze again. There's no judgment in his eyes, only steady warmth and something like amusement, and wordlessly he tilts his head - inviting Eggsy to put his hand on his shoulder.

Mellow, round tones from the horn and the sonorous slide of a bow across strings fill the little office, so smooth and vibrant it’s like the band is there with them. Eggsy feels the music rising in his chest like a living thing, filling his ears and lungs and the space somewhere behind his heart with a steadying calmness grounded by the soft-tempoed drums. It smooths out the tension coiled in his spine and the tense, stiff bend of his arms. His shoulders unwind and inch down from the wooden, uncertain rigidness until he’s softer, relaxed, pliable now in Professor Hart’s arms.

Professor Hart gives them a few beats to settle into the rhythm of the music, finding the three-beat rise and fall of the waltz in the resonating sound. He hums the _one_ -two-three, _one_ -two-three, and the beats tick through Eggsy’s mind, a pulse in his bones until Professor Hart steps off, without warning, into the dance.

And - it’s a moment before his feet can catch up, kick into gear, but Professor Hart doesn’t say anything when he shuffles a step backwards awkwardly, finding the rhythm a step later and repositioning his hand on the Professor’s shoulder. He keeps counting off in a calm murmur, his soft tenor in Eggsy’s ear -  _ one-two-three _ and repeat, small steps as he guides Eggsy back and forth, around the small office in a slow turn. Eggsy breathes in time with the heartbeat-like tempo, lets himself be moved by Professor Hart’s expert dancing. He’s heard - even from Professor Hart himself - that a good leader can get anyone to dance, and that’s certainly true. The backwards steps give Eggsy no trouble at all as they settle into a comfortable pattern, swaying and pivoting across the length of the rug and back again in perfect time.

They don’t speak. They don’t need to - Professor Hart lets his body do the talking, guiding Eggsy where he wants to go and into the correct steps by shifting of his weight, with the line of his shoulder as he leans one way or another, gently pushing him through the steps - which, to Eggsy’s amazement, happens without him having to look at his feet. It’s so natural, so fluid - when Professor Hart guides him backwards towards the far wall he has no doubt that they’ll spin away, that he’ll pivot and guide Eggsy back towards the center of the room again in a perfect turn. The hand on his lower back is steadying, warm, and Eggsy lets himself relax into the touch and enjoy it. That’s what dancing is supposed to be about, anyways, he reminds himself.

Professor Hart must feel it, when Eggsy gets more comfortable with himself and the movements. He catches Eggsy’s eyes as he glances up, still amazed that he doesn’t have to be looking at his feet constantly to not be scuffing or treading all over Professor Hart’s polished brogues. He smiles, and to Eggsy’s surprise lets go of one hand, still using his body language to lead Eggsy into another move - a slow spin - before winding him back in again, hand skimming up, then down the length of his spine to settle at the supple curve of his lower back again. It’s in time with a trembling, ringing note on the horn, and the whole thing sends another bout of shivers across Eggsy’s skin, hair raising on his arms despite the warmth of the room. It’s something they hadn’t done before, not in front of the second years - not something that Professor Hart had walked him and Roxy through as a more advanced move. It’s sensual, and the touch of it lingers in Eggsy’s mind even as they settle back into the swing of the waltz, the dip and flow of the beats as they dance. 

None of this is  _ anything _ they’ve ever done before, Eggsy thinks. It’s a potent thought; his face warms as he turns it over in his head, careful to keep his hand still in Professor Hart’s gentle grip. Helping with grading papers is one thing, as is advice about magic and guidance on schoolwork and a working Professor-Student relationship, albeit one that is closer than most. But this is - tenuously treading the line towards something else, towards shifting what they’ve already established and what already works, and Eggsy’s heart leaps into his throat at the realization. A crush is one thing;  _ this  _ -

There’s a gentle rumble on the cymbal and the horns descend to a softer, sustained note as the song comes to a close; they slow to a sway along with the rhythm, returning to the center of the room - where they had started.

Eggsy looks up at Professor Hart as they come to a gentle halt, letting the last notes of the phonograph fade around them and resonate into the air, the strains of music echoing in the small stone chamber a half-moment longer before fading completely. There’s that curious look on Professor Hart’s face again - one that Eggsy had seen in the muted half-light of the moon in the Forbidden Forest weeks ago, but this time  they’re so close, face-to-face. His eyes are warm, as always, but there’s a sharper flint to them, assessing and studious that makes Eggsy’s insides flip with the feeling that Professor Hart can see right through him. He swallows, throat bobbing with the motion, and he watches as Professor Hart’s eyes flick downward for a moment before returning to his own. 

“Well done,” Professor Hart says, one hand sliding away from Eggsy’s back and the other releasing Eggsy’s hand from its sure, gentle grip. “You’re capable of anything you set your mind to, Eggsy; you’ve more than proven yourself in that regard.”

Heat lingers where Professor Hart’s hands had been, and Eggsy can feel himself blush as he steps away, rubbing at the back of his neck and willing it to fade. 

“Thanks, Professor," he says, clearing his throat as he shuffles awkwardly. They're still within touching distance, and he can't shake the feeling that they're approaching some kind of precipice. "For the dance lesson and the- um, thanks."

"You're welcome," Professor, Hart replies, and there's a few beats where they linger, looking at each other as the moment stretches longer, wavering.

Eggsy looks away, finally, wheeling towards the mantle and the minuscule chair that's still perched on the edge of the polished wood. "Erm -mind bringing that back to its proper size? It's so warm in here - I don't think I'm going to get much more reading done tonight, like this."

“Of course,” Professor Hart nods, pulling his wand out of his pocket. “You might want to take a step to the side, though.”

Eggsy does, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Professor Hart levitates the tiny chair back to the floor before returning it to its normal size, which it does with a pop and a muffled thump as it settles back down on the rug again. It’s exactly as it was earlier in the night - although, perhaps, with less dust in the chair and more floating in the air around it. Eggsy picks his book up off the seat, giving it a few good thumps to shake loose any dust clinging to its cover or pages, careful that the papers and quill he’d used to mark his page don’t come loose and spill onto the floor.

“Thanks,” he says, opening his bag to shove the large hardcover inside, buckling it closed with fingers far steadier than he feels. “Done grading for the night? It’s almost half-ten already.”

“It is getting rather late,” Professor Hart nudges his desk back into place with a few hand gestures and magic - his wand is still where he left it, by the far windowsill - and he perches on the edge of his desk. Eggsy can’t read his face, has no idea what is going on in his mind. But he knows himself well enough that he  _ knows _ the longer he stays, the higher the chance he has of making a fool of himself - or worse, getting himself into trouble.

“I’ll, um - see you on Thursday, then, Professor?” he says, tongue thick in his mouth as he slips his robe on over his jumper. It’s far too warm for another layer, but it’s easier to wear it than to carry it, and it looks far more normal to be leaving a Professor’s office with his robe on than without. Heat creeps up his already-flushed neck, and he ducks through the strap on his book bag to settle it over his shoulder with only a moment of untangling.

He pauses again, and Eggsy half-turns from where he’d stepped closer to the door, arm almost outstretched to reach for the doorknob. Professor Hart’s eyes are narrowed and considering, but no less pleasant and fond than before. He takes a breath like he’s about to say something and, after another beat, raises his eyebrows and shakes his head, as if banishing the thought from his mind.

“Have a good evening, Eggsy,” he finally says, hands coming to rest in his lap and long legs extending towards the floor. There’s something softer, a little worn in the uncharacteristic slouch of his spine, but he doesn’t stop smiling.

“Good night, Professor,” Eggsy replies, hand closing around the cool metal of the doorknob and escaping out into the chilly air of the hallway, the heavy wooden door creaking closed behind him.

The corridor is blessedly cool after the heat of Professor Hart’s office,  but Eggsy can’t be sure that the warmth isn’t just from the heady blush on his face, or the feverish pulse of his thoughts racing through his mind. There’s a part of him that’s still riding the high of being in Professor Hart’s embrace as they danced, circling so easily around the room and moving as one, fluid and seamless. They’d been close enough to breathe one another’s air, close enough that Eggsy could see where the professor’s hair is beginning to grow gray at his temples, the way crow’s feet gather at the corner of his eyes when he smiles. They had  _ danced _ , and that was more than Eggsy could have wished for, just the two of them in the round little room that felt all the bigger for having the two of them in it, lit by the cheerful flickering of the fire in the hearth and surrounded, inside and out, by the soulful music of the waltz. 

The places where Professor Hart’s hands had been - the small of Eggsy’s back, his right hand - feel unnaturally cold without the heat of him against Eggsy’s skin, as warm as his face still feels in the castle air. Everything is quiet because of the late hour, approaching curfew already; his heartbeat pounds in his ears, slowly steadying to a normal pulse as he leaves the office and the Defense Against the Dark Arts corridor behind him. It isn’t a long walk back to the Hufflepuff dormitories, but he lets his feet slow, taking even breaths as he gathers his thoughts.

This is something more than a crush.

It shouldn’t be, it can’t be; even if his gut - heart? - tells him that Professor Hart could very possibly be feeling some of the same attraction that’s pulling in Eggsy, that’s making them orbit each other in tandem. There’s no way that anything could…happen. Roxy was right about that, at least; anything between a professor and a student is more than just against some sort of Hogwarts code of conduct. And there’s only so much Eggsy can let himself fall into this before it becomes too much - he owes it to himself, at least, to reel in his heart and take a step back from - whatever this is. 

It’s going to be shit, trying to distance himself from Professor Hart to squash out these feelings. Not to mention that he doesn’t quite  _ want _ to stop seeing him, in some ways; whether or not it evolves into something more, they’ve become good friends. His traitorous heart ran with the half-formed crush he’d had since the beginning of the fucking year, Christ, and now that it’s getting to the point where he’s actually taking Roxy’s advice, there’s no denying that stamping out his feelings is going to hurt.

But - maybe for tonight, he can dream. 

He nearly trips through the Hufflepuff common room and deposits his book bag at the foot of his cozy four-poster bed with a heavy thump, landing face-first in bed. He gathers his pillow to his face and squeezes it, intending to muffle a frustrated shout from his sleeping dorm-mates - but nothing comes out. Eggsy sighs, rolling onto his back and staring up and the draped cloth above him. Professor Hart’s - Harry’s - hands have left their impression, warm and branding in his memory.

For tonight, maybe, it isn’t dangerous to dream: Professor Hart’s hand at his lower back, guiding him through the waltz, their hands clasped and held high as they dance. The music fades and in Eggsy’s mind, he doesn’t step away when they look at each other, locked into gazing in each other’s eyes like they’re lost in them. Professor Hart lets go of his hand to cup his cheek, to draw him in for a kiss that burns with his warmth. 

It’s just a dream, but Eggsy can feel the heat down to his toes.

 

 

The Yule Ball is, by all accounts and according to everyone who goes, an absolutely brilliant time.

The holiday decorations set up weeks before are made more glorious and beautiful for the ball, the entire Great Hall glistening with light-refracting icicles and piles of dust-like snow, more falling gently from the ceiling above. Decorative frost-spells have turned the greenery - wreaths and garlands and sprigs of holly - into winter-kissed boughs, as if they were outside rather than in. Candles hover mid-air, some wrapped in ivy or stems of prickly pine, glittering like the falling snow above their heads. It lends an incredibly magical and fairy-tale look to the festivities, and everyone that enters the Great Hall looks around with awe at the candle-light reflecting off the snow and ice, the contrast between the roaring fire in the great fireplaces and the wintry appearance of the rest of the room. 

Eggsy comes up to the Great Hall from Hufflepuff with Ryan and Jamal just as the rest of their group is descending the stairs from various other parts of the castle; Roxy and Sophie are hand-in-hand, followed by students from their various study groups and classes - Amelia and Michael and Jen, a redhead from Ravenclaw Eggsy recognizes from their NEWT Transfiguration class and Patrick from Hufflepuff as well. They all point and gasp and grin at the decor, but it isn’t long before they pull each other onto the icy, nearly mirror-like dance floor just as the band begins to play.

Between the fun of dancing - more fun than serious, though he does slow-dance with Roxy when Sophie reluctantly lets him, with a wink - and the occasional snacking and drinking with his mates, Eggsy loses track of time. With exams finally behind them, it’s a welcome relief to have a night to relax and celebrate before most of the students return home for the winter holidays. 

After having a quick turn around the dance floor with Amelia to a quick-footed jive, Eggsy bows out and leaves her to dance with her Ravenclaw friends, heading instead for the long banquet table lined with icy goblets and a massive crystalline punch-bowl filled with some mulled drink of Professor Lance’s creation. It’s quite good, when Eggsy gives it a taste, and he finds a spot to lean against the wall, out of the way of the dancers to look out over the crowd, relaxing and lost in thought.

Half of his seventh year gone by - one Hufflepuff win under his belt, and hopefully more to come in the new year; halfway until the looming deadline of the NEWT exams, deciding his capabilities and the fate of his career. Another semester closer to being finished at Hogwarts, as hard as it is to believe - that much closer to leaving all of this behind for a new adventure as a graduated wizard, ready to take his place in the wizarding world.

As much as he tries not to look, his eyes unerringly find the tall, lithe form of Professor Hart amongst the cheerful crowd of students and staff. He’s dancing with Professor Hadley, something smooth and graceful that makes the hem of her green-gold gown flutter and billow around her on the spins and longer steps. There’s quite the crowd on the polished dance floor, but he still manages to maneuver them skillfully through the mass of other dancers even when stepping backwards. As Eggsy watches they slow, and Hadley leans in to say something into Professor Hart’s ear over the sound of the swaying music; whatever she says makes him laugh, and they pick up again, twirling elegantly under the sparkling, flickering candles.

For his part, Professor Hart looks as good as he dances: his dress robes are cut and tailored from a fine dark gray cloth, silver buttons lining up his chest and even tails that lead down to impeccably cut trousers. As always, his hair is combed and styled perfectly, and he’s pinned a boutonniere of holly leaves and silver ribbon to his lapel. He’s all long legs in smooth wool, dapper even amongst the rest of the staff in their holiday best; a warm weight settles in Eggsy’s gut as he watches him move. 

As he watches, Professor Gawain approaches the dancing pair, settling a hand on Professor Hart’s shoulder just as one song ends and another begins. Even from across the room he can see how Professor Hadley’s face lights up with joy at the sight of him, and Professor Hart bows out to let Gawain cut in and dance with Hadley instead. He does so with gentlemanly grace, weaving through the dance floor towards the front of the room, where Merlin oversees the festivities with muted enthusiasm, clearly in chaperon mode. They bend their heads together to exchange a few words, which leaves Professor Hart grinning brilliantly, and then they both look out over the crowd of dancers in the center of the room. Professor Hadley and Professor Gawain have already completely forgotten about anyone else but the two of them, effectively lost in each other’s eyes as they waltz in small circles, never straying far from their spot on the dance floor.

Eggsy looks up from watching them and glances across the room - and locks eyes with Professor Hart. It’s hard to tell, exactly, if he’s really looking at Eggsy, but after a moment his smile softens and he tips his head in an acknowledging nod. Eggsy raises his goblet of punch to toast him with a smile of his own, even as his heart pulses out a tempo in his chest fast enough to match the lively music, and a shiver runs across his skin that has nothing to do with the icy decor. 

From this distance, it’s almost easy to imagine they’re just strangers across the crowded room, easy to cast Professor Hart as some attractive bloke he’ll never see again. And maybe, if that was true, he’d cross the Great Hall and say hello.

Eggsy downs the rest of the punch in his goblet, wiping his lips with the back of his hand and refusing to look back at Professor Hart, despite the magnetic pull to do so. 

He can get over his crush on Professor Hart over the holiday break. It’ll do him good, to be back with his family and away from Hogwarts - not just the time away from his studies, but time away from Professor Hart as well. Time and distance is supposed to be a balm, though perhaps not as strong a healer of magic - Eggsy can only hope that it’ll cure him of these feelings, too. He grimaces, lips pulled into a thin line, and resolves not to think about Professor Hart at all during his holiday.

Wading through the crowd of dancers, Eggsy nearly jumps out of his skin when a hand latches around his wrist.  He’s tugged around about-face and finds it belongs to Roxy, pink-cheeked and smiling widely with genuine joy, which is rather infectious; every one of their little group is grinning brightly, laughing and dancing and singing along to the music, off-key or not. They raise a shout of joy when Eggsy joins their fold, and they spend the rest of the night like that: taking turns pairing off and dancing with each other regardless of partner, breaking to rest when they get too warm and retreating to the punch table, dancing as a group when an upbeat song comes on that they can’t help but dance to.

Eggsy doesn’t think about Professor Hart, and how it had felt to dance with him; he doesn’t think about the echo of a hand against his lower back or a hand clasped in his; he doesn’t think about how his eyes soften when he looks at Eggsy, or how the inscrutable, curious look crosses his face when they get so close -

He doesn’t think about Professor Hart as the Yule Ball ends and the students filter away from the Great Hall and back towards their common rooms, Roxy and Sophie with their heeled shoes off and in-hand rather than on their feet. They’re all quieter now as they say good night, hoarser and tired from the party and still coming down from the stress of exams finishing only a day or so before. 

Eggsy leaves the Great Hall with the rest of them, and doesn’t think about how it feels like he’s leaving a piece of his heart behind.

\- - -

 

An odd quiet settles over the castle when the Hogwarts Express pulls out of Hogsmeade station, puffing its merry way back towards King’s Cross in London.

There are students that stay over the winter holidays, of course; many of the professor stay as well, both to keep an eye on the castle and the students staying there, but also because Hogwarts is their home. It’s not the same - the halls aren’t filled with the sounds of clattering shoes and chattering voices, the long tables in the Great Hall stand mostly bare at meals aside from a few clusters of students from each house. It’s not even a full day after the start of the holiday break that Harry feels the itch to return to his house in London, since Hogwarts feels eerie and empty and no longer quite like the home that it usually is for him.

He can’t return home to London right away, though; there’s still plenty to be done, even without classes in session. He has seven classes worth of exams to grade, as well as tallying up his notes from the practical exam sessions and accounting for those along with the paper exam scores, and his desk is more like a mountain of parchment than he’s ever seen before. Harry gives himself the first morning off, though - the exam weeks are as stressful on the professors as it is on the students, though the students themselves wouldn’t believe it, and between that and the Yule Ball Harry thinks he deserves a lie-in.

Settled comfortably in his little set of Hogwarts rooms, still clad in his warm winter housecoat and slippers with a cup of tea at his elbow, Harry tucks into the Daily Prophet for the first time in more than a week. He lets his mind wander as much as he reads the words on the page or glances at the pictures. It’s nice to have a moment to sort through his mental to-do list and enjoy the prospect of not having to plan too much further ahead, with the free time of the holiday ahead. As much as Hogwarts feels like home for anyone that’s ever been a student there, he’s looking forward to returning to his house at the end of the lane, slipping between magical and muggle London on walks through the chilly winter streets, window-shopping and having a bite to eat at his favorite haunts.

Except…

Harry’s always been fine on his own. That hasn’t changed; he’s had various partners, when he worked as an Auror, and even became friends with many of them - but it’s been a long time since he’s felt the draw of having someone there with him to do, well,  _ anything _ . Or nothing. But now, somehow - and perhaps because the holidays are approaching - he can’t shake the idea of someone at his side for those cold walks about his favorite city. It’s easy to imagine a hand in his, pulling him along in Diagon Alley - or just to the local pub not far from his house for a pint or a warm mug of mulled cider. There’s a part of him that wants to wake up wrapped around another body, warm despite the chill of the season, watching the snow gather out on the cobbled stones of his street from underneath the warmth of the covers.

He’s not sure which part is more disconcerting: that these desires have finally made themselves known, or that it’s frighteningly easy to put a face to that body, to slot someone into his life in his mind.

A heavy tap-tap-tap on the south-facing window pane breaks him out of his thoughts, and Harry stands to unlatch the window, letting in a large owl laden with letters and a healthy dose of frigid December air. The owl’s feathers scrape the edges of the windowsill, dragging a modest amount of snow into Harry’s room and onto the short table and carpet. Harry tuts as the owl finds a comfortable perch on the back of his chair, looking at him with its heavy brows and totally uncaring of the cold it had brought inside. It lifts its leg expectantly for Harry to remove the letters and other post, orange eyes wide and unblinking with impatience.

“Hello to you, too,” Harry says, grumbling but fond. The owl hoots softly as Harry gently unwraps the twine around its clawed foot, setting the letters to the side so that he can pet him between the two horn-like tufts on its head. The petting is tolerated for a few moments, but with a small noise of complaint and a click of its beak the owl begins to nibble at Harry’s fingers, twisting its head around to do so.

“Ah, you want your reward before attention? Always so practical, Mr Pickle,” he shakes his head, but digs out the little bag of treats he’d gotten from the Hogsmeade post office anyways, though it’s running quite low by now. Mr Pickle gobbles the treat right out of his fingers, delicately enough not to nip Harry’s hand with the sharp points of his beak, and feigns aloofness as Harry puts the bag away; as is his wont, though, he settles on Harry’s housecoat-clad shoulder and nibbles at his ear affectionately, now that he’s sated. Harry turns back to the stack of mail, sifting through the correspondence - much of it from various colleagues about Defense Against the Dark Arts, academic discourse that Harry enjoys reading and responding to - usually. He shifts through the leaves of parchment but only glances over the words, doesn’t feel the pull to read through any of the letters as he often does when Mr Pickle arrives. 

There’s nothing for it; he’s too distracted by his shifting thoughts and the odd quiet of the castle to sit and read. Whatever solace he could find in his usual habits is thin and watery, not enough to settle his mind. Mr Pickle hoots again, nipping at his left ear, and Harry starts - he’d been so lost in his mind that he hadn’t felt the owl shifting on his shoulder, and lifts his hand up again to pet along the bird’s back, smoothing down the barred feathers he ruffled in his surprise.

He arrives at the Headmaster’s office a few hours later in a similar state: still unsettled and off-balance, still frowning softly with too many thoughts in his head, still with an owl perched on his shoulder and along for the ride.

“Oh, Mr P has returned again from his gallant adventures,” Merlin says when he looks up from one of his too-thick rolls of parchment. Even with the semester over, the work of a Hogwarts headmaster isn’t finished. “In time for Christmas, eh? Good thing, too - you won’t be alone for the holidays.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “You can say his full name, you know. As ridiculous as you may find it, which is amusing for a man that named his owl-”

“-Something not a foodstuff,” Merlin raises his eyebrows pointedly. He frowns, though, when Harry flops into the chair on the other side of his desk with an unusual lack of coordination and grace - so haphazardly that Mr Pickle alights from his shoulder and into the air, briefly, settling on the high wingback with a look of annoyed consternation. A line appears between Merlin’s brows and Harry sighs, feeling a lecture coming; it’s not a magical sixth sense, just a feeling that has developed over the decades that he’s known the other wizard.

Merlin sets his quill in the inkwell at the corner of his desk and rolls up the parchment he’d been scribbling on carefully, watching Harry hawkishly as he does so. He laces his fingers together and sets his elbows on the table to bring his clasped hands to his mouth, studying Harry with his full attention. He must look like he feels, Harry thinks - which is wretchedly confused and off-kilter, a far cry from his usual surety and confidence.

“They’ll be back, you know,” Merlin says, and Harry’s brow drops as he glowers, slightly annoyed that he’d been so transparent that Merlin had gotten the source of his mood change right on the first try. Well, close enough, at least. 

“The students?” Harry shifts, sits up in his chair properly so that he isn’t quite as slumped. He’s a professor, after all, and not one of his moody fifth-years. “I do know that, Merlin; this isn’t my first year teaching.”

Merlin barrels on ahead as if Harry hadn’t spoken, eyebrows quirked. “I know that you know that, but it’s not quite the same as living it, is it? The castle doesn’t feel quite right with most of the students gone home for the holidays. It’s why most of the professors don’t live here over the summer. At least right now, there are some students staying the holiday, though it feels nearly as empty as if they’d all gone home.”

“How many _are_ staying the holidays?” Harry asks.

“Less than a dozen from each house, though not much less,” Merlin leans back in his chair, hands still clasped in front of him, considering. He hesitates before saying slowly, “Am I…correct in guessing that it is less the how many have gone home for the holiday break, and more of the _who_?”

Damn. Merlin always has been perceptive; it’s what makes him a good friend and a good headmaster, though Harry can’t say he’s glad for it, now.

Harry doesn’t reply, instead turns to scan the rest of the headmaster’s office in lieu of answering; the hectic week of exams had taken its toll on Merlin, too, from the number of tea-stained mugs littering the back table where he does much of his own correspondence and magical theory work. His desk is pin-neat but stacked with coils of parchment of various sizes and thicknesses, and from the cat-shaped divot in part of the pile it’s clear that Circe has been spending some of the cold, late nights keeping Merlin company. 

Merlin sighs, expression unchanging and unsurprised at Harry’s lack of response. “I won’t tell you what to do and not to do, Harry, you already know that - which is part of why I suspect you’re here. As your Headmaster, I really  _ don’t _ want to know about it. As your friend-” he huffs, shaking his head fondly, “-I still don’t want to hear too much of the details, but I’m here to listen if that’s what you want.”

“What I want,” Harry says slowly, pointedly, “is _entirely_ the problem.”

“Here’s what you’re going to do,” he says, stepping around a precarious stack of books from the library and towards the little tea service cart that stands off to the side, near the table of alchemical and astronomy equipment and the cat bed that Circe never deigns to use. “We’re going to have some tea and complain about how awful this past exam season was, perhaps whinge a wee bit about James Lance and Percival Ashwicke, and then you’re going to go home to London for the holiday.”

“If you need me here, to help oversee the students-” Harry sits up straighter, adjusting his glasses, and Merlin waves off his offer as he adjusts the teacups on their saucers.

“There’s no need - as long as Lance and Ashwicke don’t burn the place down with the amount of heated glaring that they do at each other, I’m sure we’ll survive the holiday.” Merlin brings over the tea tray, muttering a spell under his breath to clear away enough room in the center of his desk to set it down. With a tap from his wand the kettle starts to boil; Merlin pulls up his chair and settles in, and by the time he’s gotten teabags out for their cups the kettle has just started to whistle.

Harry had been planning to go back to London anyways, but hearing that he should from Merlin makes him feel oddly more at ease with the decision, though he hadn’t realized it. Merlin looks up at him as he pours water into their cups, steam and the comforting scent of tea beginning to fill the room; Merlin must be able to sense his discomfort or see it on his face, Harry thinks with grudging acceptance.

“You’re going back to London,” Merlin says, tone brokering no argument. Behind Harry, Mr Pickle hoots his agreement, and steps back down onto Harry’s shoulder, his talons gentle against the fabric of Harry’s robe. 

“Now,” Merlin sits back with his cup, taking a sip and ignoring how the steam starts to fog up his glasses, “tell me what your new bet is for Lance and Ashwicke; it’s likely, at this point, that they’ll outlast Christmas and therefore your latest estimate. Think they’ll finally get their act together in the new year?”

Harry smiles at that, almost in spite of himself, and says, “Perhaps - but you can’t be playing matchmaker while I’m away. That’s quite against the rules.”

“I’m all for breaking rules at this point, if it gets the two of them together,” Merlin grumbles, adding another cube of sugar to his tea with a wry smile, and Harry laughs.

It’s easy to spend the rest of the afternoon like that, chatting and drinking cup after cup of tea. Merlin has the time to spare, miraculously, and doesn’t mind spending it with Harry now that the busier duties of headmaster are finished until the students return back to Hogwarts in January. So they bicker and complain, make fun of each others’ magical habits and their reputations amongst the student body. The hours whittle by quickly, and by the time they stand to head down to the Great Hall for dinner, Harry is feeling much more like himself. 

Mr Pickle is roused from his nap on Harry’s shoulder when he moves, and complains with a nibble to Harry’s ear, which only makes him chuckle. The owl really doesn’t have anything to complain about, anyways; Harry has given him two of his biscuits, which is quite the treat indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more Kingsman and Hartwin-variety writing and art, join me in Hartwin trash hell and follow me on [tumblr!](http://venvephe.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit overdue, but I'm happy to finally share with you chapter 6! A few other writing things are off my plate, and in a fit of productivity, I edited the entirety of this chapter in about three days flat. Phew! But some good news and bad news: I'm just about out of buffer, meaning I have quite a bit of writing cut out for me to finish the next chapter, and it will probably take a while - these are long chapters. But the good news: I'm reasonably sure at this point that this fic will be 7 or 8 chapters long, depending on exactly how the ending wraps itself up! I hope you're as excited as I am about seeing where and how the story ends :) 
> 
> With this chapter, this is also officially my longest fic _and_ I've posted more than 200k words to ao3! Woohoo!
> 
> Also, uh. With this chapter the rating has increased to E, and it earns it in this next bit. 
> 
> My eternal love to DivineProjectZero, who is so supportive and fantastic to me, even when I'm not writing the things I should be. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Eggsy finds Roxy waiting on Platform 9 ¾ half an hour before the Hogwarts Express is due to depart for the Scottish highlands and their beloved castle. Her trunk isn’t in sight - already magically packed on the train, so she doesn’t have to try to hoist the massive thing in herself - but the book bag over her shoulder is stuffed to the brim with more than just books, and Eggsy grins. They always save giving each other gifts for the return trip to Hogwarts, to pass the time while scarfing down an indecent and unhealthy number of chocolate frogs and other sweets, and he’s certain that he can see a flash of brightly-colored paper tucked into her bag.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he says, tapping her on one shoulder and then coming around the other side. It’s worth it to see her delighted smile, even with the usual trick he pulls; she laughs, pulling him into a hug. The scarf around her neck - new, from the looks of it, extremely soft and forest green - smells comfortingly of her for all it tickles his face. He wrinkles his nose as they pull apart, beaming at each other.

“Have a nice holiday?” Roxy asks, adjusting the heavy pack on her shoulder. Eggsy’s got one of his own, bulging more than ever with gifts from his family and a few for her, plus the few odds and ends that didn’t end up fitting in his trunk.

“Brilliant,” Eggsy grins, “You?”

“It was lovely,” Roxy says, adjusting her ponytail over her shoulder and tugging her scarf into place to protect her neck from the cool station air. There’s a dimple in her cheek when she smiles, and Eggsy aches for having missed her over the holiday. “But I can’t say I wasn’t looking forward to returning back to Hogwarts.”

“Family grating on you already? Or did you really miss me that much?” Eggsy smirks, and Roxy elbows him playfully, laughing.

“Who says it can’t be both?” she says with a grin.

They wind through the crowd of families and students saying their goodbyes, towards the gleaming carriages of the Hogwarts Express to claim a pair of seats for themselves. The train is filling quickly, students piling in and finding their friends and house-mates, exchanging treats and catching up after the holidays. Roxy and Eggsy find an empty compartment near the back of the train, and as they plop down onto the red cushioned seats and pull off their bags, Eggsy’s hit with a wave of bittersweet familiarity. This is, after all, one of the last trips they will take on the train heading North to Hogwarts; he stamps down that thought, though, turning to look out onto the platform instead. The window is slightly fogged, but it’s still easy to see the general excitement and fervor of the students outside, still easy to feel the tandem happiness in returning to Hogwarts and the reluctance to leave the holidays behind.

“Is JB going to be meeting us at the castle?” Roxy asks, shedding her winter jacket but leaving on the green scarf. She’s got her heavy bag in her lap, now, and she unlatches the flap at the top to rustle through it. She keeps glancing up at Eggsy with a grin quirked at the corner of her mouth in a way that Eggsy knows is conspiratorial and mischievous.

“Yeah, he’ll come up tomorrow or the day after with the post from London - so long as there’s no snow,” Eggsy pulls off his own coat and scarf, rubbing his hands together for warmth. The train is cozy, though every time a student opens the door to the outside a little gust of cool air comes in; with their compartment door half-closed against the shifting air, it isn’t so bad. “Which we might be getting more of - who knows. Did y’have a white Christmas in Hertfordshire?”

Roxy nods. “Yes, we did - beautiful, though I imagine getting so much snow in London was a bit of a pain.”

“Daisy loved it,” Eggsy grins, pulling out a chocolate frog from his bag and tossing it to Roxy, who catches it with a smile of her own. She pulls open the delicate paper and foil wrapper immediately. “Bet the castle looks beautiful.”

“Won’t be the only thing,” Roxy raises her eyebrows, taking a toothy bite of her chocolate frog, amusement in her eyes. Eggsy smiles widely; he can’t elbow her affectionately, sitting across from her in the compartment as he is, but he waggles his own eyebrows in return.

“The castle’s not the only thing _you’re_ looking forward to returning to either, eh?” he asks, and Roxy smirks as she finishes the first of the many chocolate frogs they’ve brought, licking the melted chocolate that sticks to the pads of her fingers as primly as she can while also looking like a cat that’s caught a canary.

“As much as I like the castle - and you, my dear Eggsy - you know that neither of you are what I am most looking forward to seeing again,” she says, crossing her legs and tossing her long ponytail over her shoulder. Eggsy laughs and lobs her another chocolate frog, and she returns the favor by reaching out with her foot to close the compartment door more firmly and releasing the sugar Snitch she’d gotten for him into the air. They barely notice the train pulling out of King’s Cross station twenty minutes later, when Eggsy finally manages to catch the pesky thing and sticks it into his mouth whole, making Roxy laugh so hard she nearly chokes on her thermos of hot chocolate.

The ride North to Hogwarts passes quickly, as it always does; they exchange gifts after they stuff themselves on sweets, unable to eat any more of the frogs or pumpkin pasties even though they’ve barely made a dent in the stash of treats that they have collectively in their bags. Roxy hands him a perfectly-wrapped box complete with ribbon and card - Eggsy’s gift for Roxy is considerably less precise in its packaging, but he’s still happy to see the obvious delight on her face when she tears through the patterned paper and tape. It’s an early copy of _Important Witches of the Ages_ , and several pairs of matching knit socks and gloves to ward off the cold weather - a bit practical, maybe, but Eggsy knows how cold Roxy’s hands get while she reads and writes up her homework, even sitting in front of a roaring common room fire.

“Not that I think you’ll need them,” Eggsy smirks, gesturing to the soft, thick knit of the socks, “seeing as you’ll have someone to keep you warm now, hm?”

Roxy makes a show of giving him an exaggerated eye-roll, but she’s smiling, and shifts to sit next to him so that she can give him a proper hug in thanks for the gifts. “I had you before I had anyone else to make sure that I didn’t freeze my fingers off while doing homework,” she says, pulling on one pair of the gloves - this one fingerless, a pleasant shade of blue - “and these are lovely, Eggsy. How nice of you to get me a pair that are in green, too.”

“I have a feeling that there will be more of that in your wardrobe soon,” he says with a chuckle, grinning and giving her a casual half-shrug as she wrinkles her nose at him. “Jus’ a hunch, is all.”

“Just because I’m dating a Slytherin doesn’t mean I’m going to be giving up red and yellow,” Roxy shakes her head, returning to her side of the compartment and waving for Eggsy to unwrap his gift. “Go on - open it!”

Roxy, like Eggsy, knows her best friend well enough to get him both a book and a useful gift. There’s not a lot of time to read outside of the assigned work for class - at least, Eggsy can’t find much time with Quidditch practice as well - but as he gently folds away the wrapping paper clinging to the heavy book, the itch to open it up and explore its pages plants itself in his mind and in his fingers. He runs his hands along the thick, leather-bound cover, across the etched designs in the well-oiled hide and tilting the book so that its gold-inked titled catches the light.

“ _Le Bestiare_ ,” he reads, and Roxy doesn’t even correct him on his shoddy approximation at a French accent, “Where did you find such an old copy of it?”

“Spent quite a bit of time in Wizarding London over summer hols,” Roxy admits, giving him a soft smile and reaching out to open the book underneath his hands, careful and reverent, “Took me a little while to get it just right, but there’s a translation spell on it so you can switch between the original French and English - here.” She taps her wand twice on an intricate, stylized drawing of a centaur on the table of contents page, and like the shifting letters of a train station split-flap display, the French melts into English, the ink rearranging itself seamlessly in a mesmerizing dance.

“That’s brilliant, Rox,” Eggsy beams, delighted with both the rare book and the impressive spellwork she’d done to give it to him. “You shouldn’t have anything to worry about, by the time the Charms NEWT comes around.”

“Eggsy,” she says fondly, but grins at him nonetheless, clearly quite pleased.

It’s a gorgeous book, all careful and loving illustrations and detailed script, describing the myriad creatures of Great Britain and the continent that are magical in nature. Eggsy flips through the pages with great interest, taking care not to pull them or crease them accidentally; he only skims the pages and pictures, wanting to keep the text a surprise for when he reads it for many nights to come, though he can’t help but admire the hard work of the wizards - and witches - who compiled one of the earliest encyclopedias of magical creatures still available.

“Thank you,” he says, standing to give her a hug - but Roxy shoos him off, pointing to the slim box that had been underneath _Le Bestiare_ and lost amidst the shiny, patterned wrapping paper and shucked ribbons Eggsy had dropped on his seat.

“There’s a second part to your gift,” she says, and he sits again to pull the box onto his lap. It isn’t heavy and doesn’t make any noise when he shakes it, to Roxy’s wry amusement - besides the soft crush of tissue paper lining the inside, Eggsy hasn’t a clue what it could be.

“Go on,” Roxy urges, folding up her legs to sit cross-legged and watching with eager delight.

From the size and shape of the box, Eggsy has a decently good guess as to its possible contents, but there’s still the bubbly feeling of anticipation as he pulls off the diagonal ribbon and then the cardboard lid, revealing the neatly folded paper inside. There are tiny foil stars embossed on the paper, answering the question of whether or not the gift is magical in origin, and he gently tears through the tape holding the tissue in place before unfolding it to reveal his gift.

It’s a gorgeous blue jumper, lightweight but incredibly warm and soft when he runs his fingers across the fabric. The knit is small enough not to distract the eye - nothing like the chunky cable-knits Roxy favored two winters ago, and still wears since they’d been so large on her - and it has a tapered vee-neck, enough stretch in the material so that he can wear it over a collared shirt for warmth.

“It matches your eyes,” Roxy says when Eggsy doesn’t say anything right away. He picks the jumper up out of the box to examine it more closely, to feel how soft it is with both hands. She’s smiling shyly when Eggsy looks up at her, and he gives her a warm smile in return.

“It’s perfect,” he says, holding it up over himself for her to see, “What do you think? A good match?”

“I’d say so,” she chuckles, dipping one hand in her bag and rustling around in it to pull out her makeup compact. “Then again, I did pick it out for you.”

Roxy opens up the clamshell compact, and in the tiny mirror Eggsy gets a brief glimpse of himself with the jumper. He has to admit that Roxy’s right; the knit is the perfect shade to bring out more of the blue in his eyes than the green, and the color is startlingly bright. The contrast is even stronger because of the warm woods and reds and golds of the interior of the Hogwarts express; he has no doubt that it’ll look quite fetching on him, once he tries it on.

“I’ll save it to wear for a special occasion,” he promises, laying it gently into its box again but unable to keep his fingertips from running over the soft wool of it again.

“There’s no need for that,” Roxy smiles, “It’s not that nice of a jumper - just something different that will make you stand out a little more in a crowd. Wear it to the next Hogsmeade weekend, if you want to save the first wear for something.”

Eggsy raises his eyebrows, curiosity piqued, “And whose attention am I supposed to be getting by standing out in a crowd, eh?”

Roxy’s smile curls into a smirk, “Whose attention do you want?”

Eggsy feels his face heat and something knot deep in his stomach, but he doesn’t let himself even think a name.

They put their gifts to the side and get to the serious business of catching up after the holidays, peeling open a few more sweets and swapping stories as the train puffs merrily along, over winding rivers and through the heath of the highlands, towards Hogwarts castle. There’s a near-constant commotion in the carriage hallways between the compartments as students find their friends and visit each other, trading gifts getting up to all manner of trouble before they arrive at the school for the next semester to begin. Roxy and Eggsy decimate the bounty of chocolate frogs he’d packed in his bag, chatting the trip away as the view outside the train becomes colder and snowier as they make their way North. They have to be quick about changing into their robes - Roxy has most of her school kit on and only has to change into her proper Hogwarts jumper - since they near Hogsmeade station all too soon, and the windows have gotten even foggier from the change in temperature.

The returning students spill out of the Hogwarts Express like a bottle shaken to bursting when they finally pull up to the Hogsmeade platform. They’re even faster about scrambling into the thestral carriages because of the cold, snow crunching underfoot and the trees glittering with icicles and fresh, white powder. Eggsy and Roxy are no exception - Jamal and Ryan and Sophie find them just as they’re about to step up into a carriage, and the five of them pile inside to make the trip up to the castle.

It all passes in such a fast blur that Eggsy only realizes partway through the trip that he hadn’t seen Professor Hart waiting with Merlin on the platform, oddly absent from his usual place.

 

 

Eggsy is fairly confident that he’s gotten this to work.

The trouble with having a crush, generally, is that the object of your affections is often someone you interact with daily; the emotions sprout up by surprise, unwanted or not, like the hardy grass that tries to grow between cobblestones. It’s easy to get strung along by your heart for that reason - seeing someone every day renews the fervor of the feelings, refreshes all the reason your heart (or other parts of you) has for the crush in the first place. The less exposure you have to your crush, the easier it is to get over them - and over time, the feeling fades into a memory until you’re not sure you even knew what love actually _was_ when you had that first crush.

This is what Eggsy tells himself, at least. He’s had crushes at Hogwarts before - no one is spared from that milestone of teenager-dom, he’s quite certain - and by and far, he’s only experienced the unrequited kind of crush. They’ve always faded over summer holidays, to Eggsy’s retrospective relief - especially the crush on Charlie, he has _no idea_ what he’d been thinking - so there’s no reason to think that this is any different.

He doesn’t tell any of this to Roxy, any of his plan to untangle himself and his feelings from - _him_ , or his theory on how to successfully do so. Admitting his feelings to Roxy would make it all the more real, somehow. Back in September, when he’d vehemently insisted that it was _just a crush_ , he couldn’t have known that it would spiral so far. Enough was enough. He can get through class once a week - and maybe work back up to visiting after-hours to help with grading, once he’s certain that the embers of his feelings have been completely stamped out.

So it’s with a little thrill of excitement and anticipation in the pit of his stomach that Eggsy walks to Defense Against the Dark Arts with Roxy the first Wednesday in January, fist clenched on the strap of his bookbag for all that he’s trying, willfully, to relax. Roxy looks over at him with a raised eyebrow, clearly suspicious - but not suspicious enough to ask him about it. He’s certain he’s going to get an earful after class, though. They enter the classroom with a few of their classmates, settling into their usual seats in the middle of the room and pulling out their textbooks.

Professor Hart isn’t there yet, but it’s clear that he’s only stepped out for a moment; there’s a cursive list of the subjects they’ve yet to cover on the board at the front of the room, and the looming date of NEWTS - the third week of June - circled in one of the top corners.

“What do you think we’ll start next?” Roxy asks quietly, setting a bottle of ink and her quill down on the desk, uncurling a piece of parchment to take notes. “Disguises is at the top of the list, but maybe Stealth and Tracking would be the most useful before the NEWTs?”

“Didn’t you do the assigned reading?” Eggsy prods her gently in the side, flicking her quill with the tip of his, “Pretty sure it’s going to be-”

“Recognizing Dark Objects,” a clear voice rings out from the back of the classroom, accompanied by all-too-familiar footsteps against the smooth stones of the floor. A little shiver of warmth trickles down Eggsy’s spine at the words and he rolls his shoulders, straightening in his seat as he tries to ignore the feeling. He’s over this. He can _do_ this.

Professor Hart stops at the front of the room, tapping at the heading near the top of the list of subjects. “Arguably the most important subject within Defense Against the Dark Arts i to which we haven’t gone in-depth. While I’m certain I agree with many of you that there are other topics on this list that are more fascinating by far, this is the one you will most likely encounter on the NEWT exam in some form, which is why we’re tackling it now.”

He folds his hands behind his back and paces a little as he walks, but stills when he pauses in his introduction, scanning the faces of his students and making eye contact with many of them, smiling warmly. “I hope you had a nice holiday; the castle is rather quiet without you, though I’m sure you enjoyed your time away. I’m delighted, therefore, to tell you that we’ll be making plenty of noise in this lesson today.”

At that, Professor Hart reaches for the dark velvet sack on the front desk that Eggsy hadn’t noticed before, so caught up in his own mind as he was. He pulls out several objects one by one, putting them in a line along the front table for the whole class to see.

“An hourglass with red sand,” he says, setting it down gingerly - and immediately, the grains inside begin to shift. “A silver locket; an umbrella; a chocolate frog-” That gets a few chuckles, and Professor Hart looks up at them with a quick smile before placing the last object in line with the others. “-and a black quill.”

The room is hushed as Eggsy and his fellow students consider the items, and Professor Hart stands to the side, watching their reaction with muted amusement.

“Let’s talk about dark objects,” he says with a smirk, voice lowered to a deeper rumble, and there’s a rush of heat in Eggsy’s gut.

Oh, no.

He can only half-listen to the words coming out of Professor Hart’s mouth, opening his textbook and flipping to the correct page along with the rest of the class - but he can’t make sense of the words, he’s so lost in Professor Hart’s voice. His traitorous heart thuds in his chest, heavy but ever-hopeful, and he can feel his blood throb in his veins as its tempo increases. Professor Hart’s voice fills the room as he talks, echoing slightly against the polished stone of the ceiling and floors, and it more than fills Eggsy ears. He breathes deeply, wills his heart to calm. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

He’d been so _good_ over the break, throwing himself into the time he had to spend with his family. And it had been brilliant really, to catch up with his mum and play with Daisy, see how much she’d grown since he was last home. There’d been plenty to do with the coming holiday, plenty to help with; it hadn’t been awfully difficult at all to shove any thoughts of Professor Hart out of his mind in favor of the things right in front of him. Well - as easy as it ever was, to _not_ think about something. Or someone.

But now - and he’d been so confident that this would work, that he’d convinced his heart and mind that the unattainable would be just that, and that it was better to let whatever he felt fade away. It shouldn’t have been so hard with just a crush; Eggsy swallows around a lump and considers, not for the first time, that maybe a _crush_ isn’t all that this is.

He doesn’t hear Roxy calling his name until the second time, when she accompanies her heated whisper with a jab in the side that rouses him from his thoughts.

“What is it?” he asks, blinking away his thoughts and coming back down to earth. Roxy gives him a long look, eyes narrowed slightly, but she brushes off his odd behavior for now to say, “You didn’t hear a word of that, did you?”

It’s more of a statement than a question, and Eggsy raises his eyebrows at her, feigning innocence. It doesn’t work; she shakes her head ruefully, nudging his calf with the tip of her shoe under the table.

“We’re taking a mid-class break before Professor Hart dives deeper into identifying dark objects, using the ones he put up there as an example,” she tells him, stretching as she does so, “Reconvening in a few minutes. Are you all right?”

“Just-” Eggsy makes a vague motion with one hand, scratching behind his ear, “-lost in my thoughts, is all. Lot goin’ on now, with NEWTS all the closer - least it feels like it.”

Roxy nods, lips pursed, though there’s no way she buys his excuse. “Well pay attention, all right? I’ll let you borrow my notes for the first half, but if we do anything practical I shan’t be responsible for the fact you have no idea what’s going on.”

Giving her a crooked grin, Eggsy creeps his fingers closer to the parchment filled with Roxy’s neat cursive, leaning in her direction. “Let me have a peek at your notes now, eh? So I don’t run the risk, just to be sure.”

“Eggsy,” she sighs, but pushes the paper towards him anyways.

The rest of the two-hour Defense class goes quickly, and despite his lingering thoughts on their teacher, Eggsy finds himself almost equally interested in the subject matter at hand - almost. His eyes follow Professor Hart’s movements in front of them, his gaze catching on Professor Hart’s hands. He can’t control it. There’s something entrancing about how he moves, the way he holds himself; it’s different from the other members of the Hogwarts staff and most definitely from the other adults Eggsy knows, let alone the students. He moves with the ease of a great cat, sure and steady, every motion with its purpose. Eggsy flushes to remember the ease with which he spun them and guided them through the waltz, even before the Yule Ball, and how did he even think he had any chance of escaping this? 

He’s read enough stories about magical interference with love to know that _that_ is most definitely not an option.

Eggsy considers reading up on it anyways, just to make sure - there’s plenty in the Hogwarts library to warn against such course of action, not to mention how Roxy would chew him out for even thinking it up. Professor Hart’s lips quirk up in a smile as he makes a brief joke, then turns back to the board at the front of the room to jot down a few additional notes; Eggsy follows him with his eyes, letting the tenor of his voice wash over him and attempting to keep up with the topic. He may have to ask Roxy for her notes anyhow, just to make sure he hasn’t missed anything - his attention is divided, and he can’t stop himself from the magnetic distraction of Professor Hart.

“What bee has gotten into your bonnet?” Roxy asks, tugging him along towards the Great Hall once class has ended for the evening. It’s already pitch-black outside and the windows rattle a little bit with the wind; it’s the deep of winter, now, and the warmth of the castle and the cheery light of the candles and fireplaces chase away any melancholy the end of the holidays created. “I doubt you heard more than three sentences strung together in class.”

“Distracted,” Eggsy says honestly, and the incredulous, raised-eyebrow look Roxy gives him makes him smile thinly: it’s the truth.

“Gary Unwin,” Roxy shakes her head - and Merlin, he’s got it coming if she’s using his full name. “This weekend you’re going to meet me in the Room of Requirement, and we’re going to suss this out once and for all.”

“I tried already, Rox,” he nearly whines, but it comes out tired more than anything else. “To stop - or get over - whatever this is, it’s not so simple as that.”

“Things are rarely simple with you,” Roxy gives him a smile, and leaves him to his thoughts at the Hufflepuff table.

 

 

Three times he paces, back-and-forth-and-back, and a door appears on the wall of the seventh floor corridor.

It always happens just outside of Eggsy’s sight, at the corner of his eye, so that when he makes a turn after completing the third circuit in front of where the door should be, it’s already there. He’s shown up a bit early - before Roxy, on purpose - and he’d been thinking of his requirement quite loudly and specifically. There’s still no saying what the room might hold for him when he grasps the handle and goes inside.

The Room of Requirement has shaped itself into a squashy, cozy space not unlike the Hufflepuff common room. There’s a roaring fireplace with a neat stack of kindling next to it, a long bough of ivy draped across the mantle - either the magic of the castle or Eggsy himself isn’t quite over the holidays yet, perhaps both - and a steaming kettle on a squat table next to a comfortably lumpy sofa. The walls are a muted green, faint patterned damask to match the darker green of the shaggy rug underfoot.

Eggsy takes a seat, tucking his legs underneath himself and getting comfortable. He carefully plucks the lid off the top of the kettle, and the calming aroma of green tea and jasmine fills the room - Roxy’s favorite for whenever they need to sit down and have a serious talk or a serious study session.

There’s a gentle double knock on the door, and Eggsy turns just in time to see Roxy step into the room, looking around curiously and shucking her shoes just inside the door.

“Green, Eggsy?” she asks, shedding her dark outer robe and bookbag, laying them over one of the unused armchairs arranged around the fireplace. “Not like you - usually it’s all golds and browns, unless you’re feeling indulgent and give me some Gryffindor reds.”

“I didn’t ask for green,” Eggsy points out, and Roxy sits next to him on the sofa, giving a few good thumps to one of the knit throw pillows before she settles down.

“You didn’t _not_ ask for green, which is precisely why you got it,” she quirks an eyebrow with a smile, and Eggsy can’t help but concede that she’s right. He pours them both tea before she even has to ask about the pleasant, fragrant scent, passing over her mug before picking up his own. It’s piping hot, and they gently blow across the the top of their mugs to cool it down before they even try to take a sip.

“Tell me what’s going on,” Roxy urges, patting Eggsy’s knee and scooching closer.

“You’re not going to like it,” Eggsy warns her, but Roxy just smiles fondly, taking a long sip of her tea.

“Out with it,” she says, mouth upturned behind the rim of the mug. Her voice is a little muffled, but no less amused. “Come on, how bad can it be?”

“I can’t get over Professor Hart,” Eggsy blurts after a moment, shrugging to cover his embarrassment. “I thought that the holiday break would help - and I tried, I really did, before the hols I stopped going to see him so often - but it didn’t _work._ Just being in the same room with him is distracting, which is going to do _shit_ for my grade in DADA, let alone my hopes for a decent NEWT grade. I can’t stop remembering when we danced-”

“When did you _dance_?”

“- and he’s been looking at me like - like I don’t know, not like he looks at anyone else, that’s for sure. I’m gone on him, Rox, and there ain’t nothing I can do about it.”

Roxy purses her lips, a soft line forming between her brows as she frowns.

“I thought this was just a crush,” she says carefully, and Eggsy flops back into the cushions of the sofa, groaning as he rubs at his face. There’s a hot, pinching sensation behind his eyes, and his chest is tight even though he’s breathing fine. The thud of his heart in his ears is loud enough to drown out the merry crackling of the fire in the fireplace, and he swallows thickly.

“I think we left crush behind weeks ago,” he confesses, and Roxy makes a soft noise in her throat. She sets down her tea to shuffle closer, putting a hand on his shoulder and then guiding him into a hug, running her hands down his back soothingly.

They’re quiet for a moment, and Eggsy feels himself calming, feels the energy and stress drain from the tense muscles in his shoulders. Roxy continues the comforting, rhythmic motion of her hands, rubbing his back and matching her breathing to his until it evens out, until the stress starts to uncoil in Eggsy’s mind.

“Better?” she asks quietly, and Eggsy nods against her shoulder, breathing in deeply and enjoying the familiar smell of her shampoo. She’s steady and loyal, his Roxy; he should have told her all of this sooner, judging by how much better it has already made him feel to get it all out in the air, rather than keeping it bottled inside. He pulls away slowly, rubbing his nose in embarrassment and hoping his eyes aren’t as red as they feel. They shift so that they’re sitting side-by-side on the couch, touching from knee to shoulder in a comforting line of warm contact.

“Thanks,” Eggsy says, taking a deep inhale and exhaling slowly. He feels more centered, more himself already. “Didn’t know how bad I’d wound myself up ‘til I got it all out.”

“That’s generally why it’s a good idea not to keep too much of these things secret,” Roxy advises, picking up her mug again to have a sip. She grimaces. “Though - that’s my fault as much as it is yours; exams before the holidays kept me very busy, but that shouldn’t have been an excuse not to spend time together.”

“I’ll remind you that you said that when we’re nearing NEWTS,” Eggsy says, managing to grin and bump Roxy’s shoulders with his.

She smiles in return. “We’ll just have to study together - you know as well as I do that it’s going to be days of staying up late to prepare, and as much as you like to pretend you don’t study, I know the truth. But come on, we have the chance now to catch up. Tell me everything that’s been going on?”

Eggsy wavers for barely a moment; Roxy’s face is open and eager, and her brown eyes are warm even if they are a little concerned for him. “There’s a lot to tell,” he warns, and Roxy just pats his knee again.

“So start talking,” she replies fondly, and after taking another long draw from his mug of steaming tea, Eggsy does.

They had, of course, seen each other over the month of December, before the break and the new year. Roxy _had_ been kind enough to go along with volunteering for the dance lessons, and they had class together three times a week. But the excitement of the upcoming holidays, the Yule Ball, and the frantic studying for exams meant that they hadn’t sat down just the two of them in almost a month.

Eggsy feels the weight on his shoulders lightening as he recounts everything that happened: he’d called Professor Hart by his _full, given name_ , how had he not realized it was more than a crush right then and there? Roxy’s eyes are rapt and she’s quiet with the intensity of her full attention as he describes how easily Professor Hart had transfigured his office to give them enough room to dance. Her eyes widen even further when he describes the dance itself, how it felt to be in Professor Hart’s arms, the imprint of the memory still fresh on his skin like it happened only the day before, not weeks ago.

“-and that’s when I thought that it had gone far enough,” he continues, “and I was so sure I could get over him, myself, during the break - being away from the castle ‘an all. But then in class today…”

“It wasn’t that easy,” Roxy shakes her head, a sad smile on her face. “I could’ve told you it wasn’t going to be that easy, Eggsy.”

“But what the fuck am I supposed to _do_?” he says, too tired to whine but equally tired of tearing himself to shreds with this internal battle. “I’m not going to get much learning done in class - you know, _learning_ , like I’m supposed to be doing _in class_ \- if I keep getting distracted by him!”

Roxy studies him for a moment, picking absently at a thread coming out of the end of her shirtsleeve, biting her lip as she thinks.

“You have to admit, I’m not going to pass my NEWTs if I can’t figure something out,” Eggsy sighs, draining the rest of his tea in a long gulp even though it’s gone cold. “It’s still a ways away - but I got to be paying attention in class if I’m going to have a chance.”

“You’ve paid attention in Defense Against the Dark Arts for the past six years, being distracted by Harry Hart isn’t going to make all of that leave your head the instant you sit down to the exam,” Roxy rolls her eyes, nudging Eggsy with her sock-covered foot. “You’re being a little dramatic.”

Eggsy narrows his eyes, unwilling to admit that even the sound of Professor Hart’s full name set butterflies off in his stomach, a nervous thrill up his spine. “Okay, dramatic or not, even Professor Hart is going to notice at some point, if I can’t do anything in class besides stare at his arse for the entirety of the afternoon.”

“Eggsy,” Roxy bursts out a surprise laugh, her smile wider now. “Surely you can restrain yourself that much.”

“I can _try_ , but I can’t promise anything,” Eggsy shrugs, beginning to smile himself. Roxy’s grin turns thoughtful, though, and she tilts her head as she looks at Eggsy as if weighing something in her mind.

“…What is it?” he asks, unable to take the keen interest of her quiet stare, and Roxy hesitates.

“Maybe,” she says slowly, “hear me out, because I know it goes contrary to what I told you throughout the fall, but - maybe you don’t have to fight it.”

Eggsy blinks at her.

“Look,” she goes on, leaning forward and setting her mug to the side, “if constantly trying to deny your feelings is going to distract you from your studies, then don’t deny them. Maybe it _is_ more than a crush, and there’s no use beating yourself up for something that’s outside of your control.”

“Did you miss the part where I said that Professor Hart himself is distracting?” Eggsy grumbles, “I should be in control, and not have to worry about failing because I’m daydreaming about our Professor in class.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Roxy presses onward, batting at Eggsy’s hand to keep his attention as he slumps into the couch again, hesitant to even listen to what she’s proposing. “Don’t fight it. Just channel it differently.”

“Channel it differently,” he raises his eyebrows, parroting the words with reluctance.

“You’ve got a one-track mind, Eggsy, we’ve known that for years,” Roxy sighs, grabbing the pillow from behind her to put it in her lap as she leans forward, “but that doesn’t mean you have to be distracted. So you feel- something for Professor Hart. Put your energy into impressing him, yeah? You can pay attention if you put your mind to it, and you’ve always been a little bit competitive. Impress him - get the best grade in class. It’ll give you a goal, and hopefully with that you’ll feel better about being around him in class. _And_ you’ll be less worried about your NEWTS if you can prove to yourself you’re doing well.”

Eggsy hesitates; it’s not a bad idea. “This _does_ go against the Don’t Have a Crush on Your Professor advice.”

Roxy elbows him gently, a dimple forming in one cheek as she smirks at him. “Too bad we didn’t think of this sooner, eh?”

“I’m still not sure I should see him outside of class, though,” Eggsy sighs. “I mean- y’know, how I used to help him grade papers and study there, and all.”

“Work up to it, if you really want to,” Roxy shrugs, “It meant I didn’t get to see a lot of you in the fall, but you were definitely more on top of the readings for your classes.”

“Oi, I’m not a bad student,” Eggsy protests. Roxy’s eyebrows creep towards her hairline. “Not in the way you’re thinking,” he amends.

“I think it’s quite naughty of you, to be hot for teacher,” she smirks and wrinkles her nose, and he rolls his eyes, groaning.

“Don’t put it like that!”

Roxy laughs. “You’ll be fine. Believe me - it’ll be easier than you think, after a week or two.”

“If you say so,” Eggsy says, unconvinced. Still: it feels good to just talk it out, to come up with some kind of plan to get his mind in the right place for the coming semester. And, despite the irrationality of it, it’s nice to hear something other than his own self-condemnation for his feelings.

“Don’t think this changes my stance on it, though - from my standpoint as both your best friend and a prefect,” Roxy interrupts his thoughts, eyebrows quirked, “I don’t think you should hate yourself for your feelings, but it’s probably best not to act on them.”

“What, that wasn’t permission for me to flirt with him?” Eggsy snickers, and she rolls her eyes. “I don’t think you have that to worry about, Rox; I have to make sure I can make it through our weekly Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons, first.”

 

 

 

If there’s a recurring thread of truth in Eggsy’s life, it’s this: once again, he spoke too soon.

The melancholy of early January and the return to school from the holiday break slowly dissolves into a pleasant - if busy - flow of one day into the next. The grounds outside the castle continue to be a picturesque winter wonderland of thick snow and crystalline icicles, though the decorations inside are put away soon after the students return. Eggsy doesn’t even mind pulling on his thick boots and trudging out into the weather for Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures; most of the time the sky is a soft, muted gray or a blue nearly the color of the jumper Roxy had given him, and it’s gorgeous to see the Hogwarts keeps laced with ice and snow from the outside. It makes for viewing the wintry scenes all the nicer, once he’s back inside and by the comforting warmth of the common room fire.

And amazingly, it does get easier. Roxy was right about that - Eggsy shouldn’t be so surprised, considering she’s got quite the head on her shoulders when it comes to giving advice - and as the days trickle forward into mid-January, something about shifting his mindset _works_. Sitting through Defense Against the Dark Arts class is much more tolerable, at least in the sense that he isn’t as incessantly distracted as he had been in the first week, when he throws himself into the work. NEWTs at the end of the year are a long ways off, but when Roxy reminds him of that he just arches an eyebrow and tells her that if he learns it well enough the first time, studying later won’t be as hard. She only shrugs and smiles at that, since he’s more or less right, and right now immersing himself in his studies is only doing him good.

If he rewards himself for his hard work once a week by taking a peek at Professor Hart’s arse, well - only he has to know about it.

He’s not able to _completely_ ignore whatever it is that he feels, but by diverting his energy into being successful in Professor Hart’s class, he spends less time being distracted by the man himself. _In class_ , at least - his fantasies have expanded to include any kind of praise Professor Hart could give him, after he receives a compliment from him on a well-written paper. The curling cobalt script at the bottom of his returned parchment is seared into his mind within moments, though he waits until after class to imagine what it would be like if Professor Hart had whispered the words in his ear rather than written it down.

So it’s with a small amount of confidence that he goes to visit Professor Hart’s office towards the end of January, on an afternoon that’s sunny but with a biting cold wind. There’s only a little bit of a nip in the air in the Defense Against the Dark Arts corridor; the further away from the Great Hall and the kitchens below it, the cooler the castle gets. He knocks on Professor Hart’s door and there’s a beat of silence before Professor Hart calls for him to come in. As soon as he’s cracked the heavy wooden door, a wave of warm air rushes out. Eggsy shivers at the change in temperature.

It’s the first time he’s been back to Professor Hart’s office since before the winter holiday.

Professor Hart looks up when Eggsy closes the door swiftly behind him, trying to keep as much of the warm air inside the room as he can. An expression flashes across his face, too quickly for Eggsy to read it; nonetheless, his stomach flips at the sight of the professor behind his desk, in his usual place. It’s familiar and a little alien all at once, and he hesitates just inside the door, unsure.

“I almost thought you’d forgotten where my office is,” Professor Hart says wryly, but his placid expression doesn’t show any ire or annoyance on his part. That alone makes Eggsy more nervous; if it was him, he’d be more than itching for an explanation as to why he’d suddenly stopped dropping by - and why he was just as suddenly returned. But if such a thought comes across Professor Hart’s mind, his face doesn’t show it.

“Come on, have a seat,” he continues when Eggsy only shifts from one foot to another, licking his lips in his nervousness. Eggsy moves his bag off his shoulder and sits, unpacking his textbook and a scroll of parchments to take notes on with a hesitant smile.

“Sorry I haven’t been by,” Eggsy says, almost shyly; it feels strange, to be so uncertain when what they had in the autumn semester had been so steady, consistent. “Exams before the holidays hit really hard, and - well, I’m sure you were busy, too.”

“I was; after you lot left for home on holiday, I stayed an extra day or two to finish the grading of said exams,” Professor Hart smiles, not unkindly, and gestures to the mountainous paper clutter currently on his desk. “As you can see, things have not changed much in the new year.”

Eggsy chuckles and twists his quill to and fro in his fingers, not quite willing to commit himself to his reading just yet. He can feel himself relaxing, the easy rhythm of their conversations returning even after so long apart. Professor Hart had been - well, something more like a friend than just a Professor, after all. Eggsy just has to make sure that there’s no indication that he’d like anything more than that - at least in appearance.

“D’you have a good holiday, though?” he asks, slowly opening his textbook and thumbing through it to the correct page; his eyes don’t leave Professor Hart’s. “Have a little time to relax without us students being a nuisance?”

“If you’re talking about yourself, you’re hardly a nuisance,” Professor Hart looks at him over the rims of his glasses with a smile, and Eggsy has to fight himself not to melt into the wingback chair. God, it’s been five minutes with the man - he shouldn’t have this kind of effect on Eggsy.  “My holiday was pleasant - though quiet, I do have to admit. That’s both the joy and bane of having a place to oneself for the holidays.”

Eggsy frowns at that. “You didn’t - spend it with family, or anything?”

“Just me and Mr Pickle, I’m afraid,” Professor Hart sighs, but it’s not forlorn - if anything, he sounds pleased at the idea of a little peace and quiet. But-

“Mr Pickle,” Eggsy repeats, and Professor Hart looks up from the essay he’s partway through grading, ink dripping comically from the tip of his quill.

“Yes,” he says, eyebrows raised towards his hairline. “My - have you really not met him, yet? I was certain he’d dropped by with the post at some point, on one of the afternoons or evenings this past autumn.”

Eggsy can’t help the grin that’s breaking out over his face, though he tries not to let his amusement be too obvious. “Your owl. You named your _owl_ Mr Pickle?”

“I’ve no idea why you have that expression on your face,” Professor Hart says, slightly irritable but returning Eggsy’s smile. “He’s a gorgeous creature, and quite smart - Merlin had the same look on his face when I told him his name, too. He’s got no room to talk - he named his cat Circe.”

“It’s a pretty good name for a wizard’s cat,” Eggsy half-shrugs, wrinkling his nose in amusement when Professor Hart practically rolls his eyes.

“Predictable, more like it. Are you going to distract me all afternoon, or can I return to my grading?”

“Do you want me to distract you?”

Eggsy freezes; the words bypassed his brain-to-mouth filter and left his lips, and it’s too late to reel them back in. Professor Hart meets his eyes and raises his eyebrows. Where had that come from? He’d been so sure - and everything had been going well, with keeping himself together in class.

 _That’s not permission for me to flirt with him?_ Eggsy hears himself say in his mind, in his memory, and internally winces at himself. Now his mouth has run away without him and gone and done just that - and from the intent and curious expression Professor Hart is giving him, he isn’t going to be able to get away with brushing it off as a joke that easily. Flirting with a professor, _Merlin_ \- his subconscious must have it out for him. That, or it’s convinced that it can do the flirting _for_ Eggsy, if he’s not going to do it for himself.

But, miraculously, Professor Hart just shakes his head ruefully, about to reply when he looks down at the paper he’s grading and realizes he’s dripped all over it. He swears colorfully as he reaches for his wand to mop up the splattered ink before it seeps too far into the parchment. Eggsy chuckles, and there’s amusement in Professor Hart’s warm eyes when he looks up at Eggsy again, shaking his head at himself as he finishes sucking up the spilled ink into the tip of his wand, leaving the essay nearly mark-free.

“I suppose you’ve seen what happens when you do distract me,” he says, eyes twinkling, “so I hope you’ll agree that it might be for the best if it doesn’t happen too often.”

Eggsy’s heart swells at the warm smile, the fond amusement in their conversation that he realizes quite suddenly that he missed in those weeks of distancing himself from Professor Hart. Being back in the small, cluttered office with the winter sun pouring in through the thin, slotted windows, warmed by the fire and the easy companionship between them, he can’t deny that this feels good. It feels right, far more than avoiding Professor Hart had felt _right_ or _good_.

“I’ll try to restrain myself,” Eggsy smirks, feeling his confidence rising again as the tension in him loosens. He can do this. “But I can’t promise to being any less than hilarious, which you know that I am. Can’t be helped.”

“I’m sure,” Professor Hart replies dryly, and dips his quill into the fresh pot of ink again - shooting a look at Eggsy as he carefully wipes the tip against the lip of the inkwell so it doesn’t drip over the paper. Their gaze lingers, for a moment, eyes locked on each other; it only lasts a second before they’re both returning to their work, Eggsy to his book and Professor Hart to his grading, the comfortable silence settling over them like a familiar blanket.

Eggsy catches himself glancing up at Professor Hart now and again, and he can’t be sure, but he’s rather certain Professor Hart does the same. It’s almost hard to believe how easy this is - and he has to keep checking that he’s really here, that Professor Hart is still sitting across from him and it’s not some fantasy induced by too much studying and too little sleep. He manages to get some of his reading done, though his concentration is tenuous and thin, easily disturbed by Professor Hart shifting papers.

More than once he catches Eggsy’s eyes and smiles again before returning back to his work, and Eggsy grins down at his textbook, unable to stop the bubbly feeling of delight welling up in his chest. He’d denied this for so long - and what for? If nothing is going to happen, there’s no harm in spending time together. Even if Eggsy’s mouth decides to run away with him and flirt - literally - with danger. It’s because it’s the first time, he tells himself. He can’t control it because it’s the first time they’ve spent time together in so long, but clearly Professor Hart is willing to overlook anything that might be construed as flirting from Eggsy’s blabbering mouth. So he lets himself enjoy the afternoon, the calm content of spending time in Professor Hart’s company and the comfortable quiet of it, until the sun has set and it’s time to head for the Great Hall for dinner.

Professor Hart holds the door open for him as they leave, though he doesn’t accompany Eggsy all the way to the Great Hall - stopping by Merlin’s office first, he says with a rueful smirk - but Eggsy’s walking on clouds as he nears the cheerful chatter of dinner, a smile stuck on his face.

Roxy’s going to know exactly what has happened just by giving him one look, but Eggsy finds he really doesn’t care.

 

But it doesn’t stop there.

He’s not cursed, Eggsy knows that for sure; in class, he’s able to control himself and his mouth, and manages to neither make a fool of himself nor get himself outright in trouble. He’s still paying attention, taking dutiful notes and making good headway every time they have a practical magic session and practice their spellwork - so there’s that. But as soon as he nears Professor Hart’s door, all bets are off: Eggsy can’t stop the insinuations and flirting comments from coming out of his mouth.

“I’m not always like this, am I?” Eggsy asks Roxy one morning, slathering his toast with enough butter and jam to make her raise her eyebrows at him. “’M not constantly flirting and just don’t know it?”

“No, Eggsy,” Roxy indulges him with an answer, rolling her eyes like he’s being particularly obtuse. “You seem to subconsciously save that for Professor Hart.”

Eggsy groans, and doesn’t put his forehead on the table, but it’s a close thing.

The second week of February, Professor Hart goes over his lesson plan for the fourth years with Eggsy, including the in-class spellwork they would be doing: pairing off for duels. He explains how he’ll demonstrate the proper techniques first, and Eggsy blurts, “Sounds like you’re good with your wand.”

To his credit, Professor Hart barely blinks. “You’ve seen me cast all manner of spells, Eggsy - both with and without it,” he says, the corner of his lip pulling up into a smirk, “though I suppose the compliment is appreciated.”

He doesn’t call Eggsy out on it, though - not any more than gently ribbing him for whatever manages to stumble out of his mouth, for better or worse. Eggsy can’t help but be a little mortified - who unintentionally flirts with professors, _honestly_? - but at the same time he’s strangely cheered by the fact that Professor Hart never outright tells him to shut up, or to stop coming by.

The tone of their time spent together changes very little; Eggsy works on whatever his latest assignment is, or gets started on readings for his various classes, and occasionally helps with grading exams or essays when Professor Hart is particularly busy. Professor Hart works through the piles on his desk, or writes out his coursework plans for his other classes. They talk about Defense Against the Dark Arts and magical theory, and the latest on the ever-evolving Lance-Ashwicke front. They talk about Eggsy’s other classes - the NEWT-levels needed for anyone hoping to become an Auror, which is quite the academic workload - and Professor Hart’s other troublesome students, or the funny things that happened in their classes in the past week.

When Eggsy’s mouth does get away from him, he internally cringes, but Professor Hart doesn’t even look up from his work, sometimes - he snorts or smiles, shakes his head and makes some witty reply that, amazingly, barely acknowledges that what Eggsy is doing _is_ , essentially, flirting. Because that’s what it is - and if Eggsy’s totally honest, if Professor Hart doesn’t mind, then neither does he.

 

\--- 

 

It’s a few days before Valentine’s Day - a Thursday afternoon, blustery and snowy as anything outside his office window - when Eggsy nearly crashes through the door with excitement.

“You won’t-” he pauses to gasp for breath, panting like he’s been running, “you won’t believe what I saw just now.”

“I shan’t if you can’t get the words out,” Harry says with an amused smile, waving in the direction of the crackling fire. There’s snowflakes in Eggsy’s hair, little crystals that stick to the black of his heavy winter robe and his eyelashes, and his nose is pink from the chill. “Sit down and warm up and get your breath back.”

Eggsy pulls off his damp yellow gloves with his teeth, and Harry definitely doesn’t follow the movement with his eyes. In two large steps Eggsy sheds his bookbag and coat, rubbing his hands together and squatting down to the hearth to warm his hands, grinning all the while. He wipes his nose when he realizes it’s running, eyes so green-blue against the flush of his face from the change in temperature, and he meets Harry’s eyes with clear delight.

“Don’t you have-” Harry wracks his mind, aware that he should know the answer to this by now “-Transfiguration on Thursday afternoons? What were you doing outside in this weather?”

Eggsy rolls his eyes, shifting to stand and lean against the mantle, still basking in the warm glow of the fire. “Transfiguring things, obviously. That’s not the interesting part.”

Harry looks up properly at that; Eggsy’s smirk is knowing and barely contained, gentle creases at the corners of his eyes from how wide his smile is. Leaning against the cobbled stones, he looks as confident as he does relaxed - though Harry can read the excitement in how he can barely keep still, the way Eggsy’s hands are still moving against each other even though he’s surely warm enough by now. Harry sits up from his hunched position over the desk, setting his quill into the inkwell before giving Eggsy his undivided attention. “Well?”

“We were out by the lake doing some Transfiguration exercises, yeah? Snow can be hard to transfigure, especially with the distraction of it coming down - though it hadn’t gotten that bad when we were first out,” Eggsy adds, then shakes his mind out of the tangent to continue his story with a bright smile. “But that’s out by where the low windows to the potions rooms are, yeah? And there’s that little half-greenhouse where Professor Lance grows some of his ingredients.”

Harry feels himself frown and raises an eyebrow - surely the Hufflepuff Transfiguration class hadn’t stumbled upon Lance’s still, had they? “I know of it, yes,” he says instead, gesturing for Eggsy to continue.

“We got closer to take a peek - just to wave at any of the students having class down there, y’know-”

“Not to distract them from their studies, I hope?” Harry smiles at Eggsy’s scoff, the way he wrinkles his nose when he denies it - like Harry doesn’t know his character well enough to deduce that Eggsy had wanted to make the younger students stuck inside smile. “You know how dangerous potion-making can be.”

“Yes, Professor,” Eggsy rolls his eyes, but continues, “but there weren’t any students having class at this hour in the potions dungeons. The only other person there besides Professor Lance was Professor Ashwicke.”

Despite himself, Harry sits up in his seat, ears perked at that. Dear god, were the two of them finally done dancing around each other? The mealtimes in the Great Hall had gotten markedly better when Harry had switched seats with Ashwicke so that he and Professor Lance were side-by-side, and Harry wasn’t stuck between them during all their bickering and arguing. Still - he and Merlin had both had to adjust their bets when the two men had come back from the holiday as passionately argumentative as ever, but still decidedly not _together_. “And?”

Eggsy’s grin is wide at seeing the rapt expression on Harry’s face, and he forces himself to stifle his anticipation. Whoever said that professors were as bad as students in terms of being interested in gossip was absolutely correct.

“Was a bit hard to tell, with the window all frosty an’ all,” Eggsy shrugs, “but they were getting pretty close. I’ll bet come Monday things will have finally happened between them two.”

Harry’s eyebrows climb again. “That’s quite the assertion; we’ve been watching them go ‘round and ‘round since September - earlier, really, if you count the end of last year.”

Eggsy shakes his head, amused, “I just know what I saw - and I know sexual tension when I see it.”

“Do you?” Harry asks, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. Not that he really doubts Eggsy - he probably sees enough of it with classmates, teenager hormones in the air as much as magic, at Hogwarts - but it’s a little amusing, coming from the seventh year.

But he doesn’t expect what happens next: Eggsy tilts his head as if considering him, and slowly - deliberately - drags his eyes up Harry’s form, lingering on the width of his shoulders and his knitted hands, on his lips before meeting his eyes. A bolt of heat runs down Harry’s spine and settles in his gut, and his nostrils flare when he breathes in, the rush of his blood in his veins suddenly faster, hotter.

“Think I got some idea,” Eggsy says quietly, at last, and Harry doesn’t breathe as Eggsy pushes off the mantle, a swagger in his step that wasn’t there before. He bends to swipe his bag off the floor, shirt riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of warm skin at his lower back; Harry drags his eyes away in time to meet Eggsy’s gaze and finds him still smirking, eyes hooded.

“Change your bet before Valentine’s Day,” Eggsy advises, looking over his shoulder at Harry as he adjusts his bag, folds his coat over his arms with one hand on the doorknob. “Though if Merlin figures out you got a tip, don’t let it come back to me.”

Harry smiles and returns Eggsy’s nod of acknowledgment, and with a grin he’s pushing the door open, striding out into the corridor and away, towards the rest of the castle. A cool gust of air accompanies the door’s opening, but it doesn’t help how stifling and warm the office feels. The heavy door clicks shut and Harry still hasn’t moved, caught as he is in his thoughts and the sudden, overwhelming silence that engulfs the office. He hadn’t noticed how quiet it was before Eggsy had stopped by - only in his absence does it seem unnaturally silent and still.

There’s the faint sound of the aggressive wind and snow outside his window, buffeting against the pane and howling as it curls around the keeps and parapets of the castle. But it’s a faraway sound, more hectic white noise than anything, but it strangely mirrors the chaos of Harry’s thoughts.

There isn't any denying it now; as much as he had been willing to overlook Eggsy's comments as part of his sense of humor, there was no wishful thinking that could say _that_ was anything other than - than outright flirting on Eggsy’s part. Sexual tension, _Merlin_. Harry can admit that he was intentionally letting Eggsy's comments slide without reprimand, but he can't for the life of him put his finger on why.

But there's no two ways about it: Eggsy had been flirting with him just now. Eggsy has been flirting with him for the past few _weeks_. It had crept on slowly; perhaps Harry had been so happy to have Eggsy's presence back in his office that he'd been more willing than he should have to ignoring the suggestive comments. There's still an electric warmth spreading through his body, radiating all the way to his fingers and sitting, heavy and buzzing, in his gut. Perhaps - perhaps he'd enjoyed it, and that's why he'd never stopped Eggsy's behavior.

Harry shakes his head, trying to clear the thoughts from his mind. It's harmless - nothing can happen between them. Nothing _will_ happen between them. Eggsy's flirting is harmless, for all that it's ill-advised; god forbid he ever says something within earshot of someone that isn't Harry.

That idea makes him pause. Maybe, then, it's worth having a conversation with him about. He has no interest in losing his job because someone gets the wrong idea about what's going on between the two of them, and there's no need to condemn Eggsy for a few passing comments, either.

He picks up his quill again, intending to get back to grading his students' papers, but his concentration is shot. With a sigh, Harry places it back in the inkwell before it drips onto any of the pages on his desk. No need for that to happen again; his mind is already whirling with memories of Eggsy in the past few weeks - let alone the time they spent together in the fall - and he doesn't need any more reminders.

Eggsy has been flirting with him. And, in the privacy of his own head, Harry can admit that he liked it.

 

 ---

 

 

It's a fact well-known by every Hogwarts student living in the house dormitories: wanking at Hogwarts isn't easy.

Even with magic, there's no safe bet on not getting caught. It's the nature of shared space, of common quarters and being in each other's pockets when living in a dormitory. And a lot of the time it's fun, living with each other: getting to know a group of friends and seeing them every day, bonding over classes and mutually disliked professors and Quidditch and all being in the same house, sharing the same room. But there are downsides to it, too - like being unable to find a private space to wank when privacy and silencing charms on your four-poster beds don't cut it.

That's why, when Eggsy can get away with it, he goes to the private prefect's bathroom.

It's empty, late at night, and that's what he counts on when he sneaks out of his room on the Friday night before Valentine's day. It's luck that he happened to sit with the Hufflepuff prefect at breakfast and talked Quidditch the entire time; Rajesh had been more than willing to give him the password to the prefects' boys' bathroom in the name of stretching his tired muscles and relaxing in the hot water to get his strength back before the coming game in a few weeks. Eggsy smirks as he slinks out of the Hufflepuff common room unnoticed - it's a Friday night, and his house-mates are absorbed in enjoying their evening without having to worry about waking up for classes in the morning.

He doesn't encounter anyone in the halls, which is lucky; he wouldn't be able to explain where he is going so close to the curfew hour, especially as he sneaks further and further into the castle. But it's easy, following the empty corridors and listening carefully in case the caretaker or a professor is walking the halls. Eggsy hasn't seen or heard anyone by the time he reaches the hidden door for the prefect's bathroom, though. He whispers the password and slips inside like a shadow.

Eggsy's footsteps echo on the light, polished marble of the bathroom floors, and even though he's been here before he can't help but admire the room. The massive central tub takes up most of the space, lined with gold faucets of various different twisting shapes and sizes; he knows from experimenting that a different scent or color of foam spews from each of them. Outside the tall, frosted windows the sky is murky and dark, a foggy light shining through the clouds where the moon is hidden behind them.

It's perfect - and far more private than underneath his duvet in Hufflepuff would be.

He has to bend down on one knee to reach the largest tap, and he gives it a twist; it squeaks in complaint, but after a moment pleasantly hot water gushes from the faucet. He reaches for the nearest smaller tap, and when he twists open the valve faintly purple foam drips from the spout, accompanied by the scent of lavender. The next one produces foam with a golden tint, and smells of fresh honey. It's enough to get the bath started, at least, and the water level rises quickly as Eggsy watches.

He strips efficiently, nipples pebbling at the cold when he shucks his shirt and yellow-and-black tie; there's a slight chill in the air, but that will change once he's gotten started. His shoes and socks are next, followed by his trousers and pants. The steaming water already covers the bottommost stairs and the polished tile bottom of the bath by the time he’s completely stripped of his clothes. Eggsy steps in, a shiver running down his spine and his skin rising to gooseflesh at the contrast in temperatures. When he sits on the ledge seat the water is waist-high, and calming scents are filling the room along with clouds of steam. He turns one more nearby tap, just for the fun of it, and the smell of the foam coming out of it hits his nose like a wave. It’s something achingly familiar, something that must be a part of the particular cologne Professor Hart uses, because just the scent of it has Eggsy half-hard. Bergamot, he thinks dizzily as the water climbs up his chest, splashes his elbows as he rests his arms on the edge of the great tub. Or maybe it’s woodier than that, something closer to musk. Eggsy doesn’t quite know and he doesn’t quite care; considering what he came here to do, it’s strangely fitting that he hit upon the soap that would inspire his imagination and memory perfectly.

The water stops rising once it’s just past Eggsy’s nipples, and he swims over to the large tap to wrench it closed again. He lets the foaming soap drip a few minutes longer, watching as the surface of the water fills with snow-like, drifting bubbles until the water is so thick with it that he can’t see his toes or thighs anymore. It smells amazing, and Eggsy dips under the water once to wet his hair and face, smiling to himself as he wipes away the bubbles clinging to his cheeks when he resurfaces. He settles back down on the tiled bench seat of the bath, sighing in contentment that he knows won’t last long. The heat of the water soaks into his muscles, and as he lets himself relax and slump against the tiled wall he realizes that he _has_ been taut with tension lately - but not the kind that Quidditch produces. Oh, no. This is tension of a different kind.

Eggsy pulls one of his hands away from where it’s resting along the lip of the bath and dips it underwater, running it down his wet chest and abdomen. It’s cool from the air, at first, and he can feel his own muscles twitch as he ghosts his fingers downward, until he can grip the muscle of his thigh and squeezes lightly. He shivers at his own sensitivity, intentionally starting slow and not jumping right to it - after all, that’s how he’d like Harry to start with him.

His left hand joins his right under the the water, trailing slowly down and pausing to tweak one nipple with his thumb before venturing further south. Eggsy bites his lower lip to cut off the breathy sound he almost makes. He’s alone, but every sound echoes tenfold in the tiled bathroom, and his gasp sounds erotic to his own ears. He’d be lying if it didn’t turn him on all the more - the thought of being heard, of being _overheard_ , of noises coaxed out of him by dexterous hands and long fingers and a talented mouth -

Eggsy wets his lips, letting his jaw relax and his mouth drop open in a long exhale as he drags his fingers along his inner thighs, aware of the stirring in his groin and the increased tempo of his heart. His skin is sensitive, his muscles pliant from the heat of the water, and runs his hands up and down, deliberately not lingering on his nipples and avoiding his cock. He’s got time, so he relishes the pounding of blood in his ears and the spreading flush down his neck and chest, the way his cock thickens and twitches against his thigh. But finally, the gentle caresses and teasing touches aren’t enough; the water sloshes a little around him when he reaches out and takes his cock in hand, curling his fingers around it loosely and giving it a few brief strokes.

The muscles in his abs clench as sensation rushes through him, and his fingers spasm before gripping more surely on his cock. Eggsy lets his head fall backwards against the tiled lip of the tub, arching his back to better leverage the movement of his hips. He fucks into his fist slowly, languidly, a rocking motion that gently stirs the water and makes the bubbles on the surface jostle with small waves. He’s not sure when but his eyes drift shut, and he settles more comfortably on the bench before bringing up his other hand, underwater, to cup his balls.

With his eyes closed it’s easier to imagine that these hands aren’t his. It’s easy to imagine that they’re larger, subtly calloused from holding a wand, but still warm for all that they’re weathered. The quiet sounds of moving water echo off the vaulted ceiling, but Eggsy can still imagine the slight draft in the room is actually a whisper in his ear, encouragements and praise of the best kind. _You’re being so good with my hand on your cock_ , the voice in his head whispers, and Eggsy can’t help but squeeze, his arse clenching as the heavy heat in his gut settles lower, his heart pounding even harder. He’s properly panting, now, nipples peaked where they’re barely in the water. His fingertips are warm when he pulls his left hand out of the water to roll the perk tip of one nipple between his forefinger and thumb, making concentric circles until it’s rosy-red and stiffer than ever. He peeks down at his chest as he gives the same treatment to the other one, nearly admiring how good pleasure looks on him. Because he wants to look, wants to look good for _Harry_ , and here in the late-night privacy of the bath and in his own mind, he can make that happen.

 _Gorgeous_ , Professor Hart’s voice says in his ears, and his eyes shut just as he scrapes one nail gently across his nipple, unable to stop the hitch of breath at the sensation. He’ll be raw and pink after this, sensitive for days underneath the starched fresh uniform shirt and tie. And _fuck_ , that idea winds him up further: being marked underneath his clothes, where no one gets to see but Professor Hart - who put them there in the first place, who looks at Eggsy as if he can see through the layers to the marks on his skin-

Eggsy lets out a high-pitched whine, cock twitching in his hand at the thought. He squeezes it, slides his hand along its length until the foreskin nearly hides the engorged, glossy head and back down again, finding a rhythm that lets him ride the sensations without tipping him so close to the edge that his imagination can’t keep up. It’s been too long since he’s properly done this; quick one-offs in the middle of the night with a sloppy silencing spell are nothing compared to winding himself up like a spring, relishing the shaken-bottle fizz of tension that builds in his belly as he gets closer and closer to orgasm. It’s so good, so hot - but it still isn’t quite enough.

His foot slides a bit, but after a second try Eggsy’s able to plant his right foot up on the tiled bench, shifting until he can splay his leg to the side and make room for his other hand. His fingertips are starting to get pruned, but the wrinkled texture of it is another layer of sensation when he reaches around and behind his balls, between his opened legs to touch his hole. It’s like he’s completed a circuit, like there’s some kind of magic connecting his cock and his hole as soon as he wriggles his finger there, a heightened sensitivity that makes his nerves light up. His spine is bow-tight as he arches his back involuntarily, cock pushing further into his fist at the same time he dips the tip of his finger into his hole, the muscle already more malleable from the heat and slick of the water.

One finger is a pleasant burn, and it’s been long enough since he did this particular kind of masturbation that it feels thick, hot inside of him in a way that’s almost right; his fingers aren’t long enough, aren’t as thick as the ones he wants, but he lets himself adjust until he can wriggle in a second one, and _yes_. The hand on his cock doesn’t slow as he starts to piston his finger in and out, shuddering at the sensations wracking his spine and making him twitch with pleasure.

His fingers don't reach very far or very deep, especially contorted in the position he's in, but it's enough to stretch himself, to approach the blunt fullness he wants. He rocks into it, fucking himself on his fingers and pushing his cock into his fist, tempo building as he pants, chest heaving. The water's not as good as lube but it helps as he jerks himself rougher, head tossing side to side. What he wouldn't give to have Professor Hart's skilled hands on him, wrapped around his cock and stroking, two fingers - or more - deep in his arse. He'd make quite the sight, spread out over Professor Hart's desk like this, legs splayed obscenely and touching himself for Professor Hart to watch. Eggsy would laugh to himself, if he could spare the breath: even Professor Hart fucking him over his desk wouldn't make a noticeable difference in the mess of papers and parchment that are usually atop it. It makes him shiver despite the warmth of the bath, the hairs on the back of his neck rising at the idea, at the mental image of Professor Hart over him.

It's not something he lets himself imagine, since he's in that very office and with the man himself so much, just the two of them. He can't help but picture it now - Professor Hart's warm eyes gone dark and wide as his pupils blow big, watching as his fingers disappear into Eggsy's arse. He clenches down on his fingers, driving them into him a little harder, a little deeper. As he slumps back into the tile wall, arching into the contact, he starts to slip further into the water, arse nearing the edge of the bench. Eggsy manages to prop himself up so he stops, but _fuck_ \- the change in angle gives him a better reach, lets him flex and bend his spine so that his fingers have more room to work.

" _Christ_ ," he moans, the pads of his fingers grazing his prostate when he thrusts them inward. There's nothing like it, the electric heat that climbs up his spine, sparks inside him white-hot when he jerks his cock and gently grazes his fingertips against his prostate at the same time. It would be even easier for Professor Hart to do this, to cover him with one large hand, spread him with the other and drive inside. If his cock is anything like his fingers - fuck, Eggsy's mouth waters at just imagining it - then it would be perfect for finding Eggsy's prostate on every thrust in, working him ‘til he's incoherent with pleasure. He's nearly there now, the ghosts of imagined hands against his skin. Eggsy licks his lips, a low groan building in the back of his throat that he can't swallow down.

 _I know what sexual tension looks like_ , he'd said to Professor Hart in an ill-advised moment of bravery - and he wasn't lying. Each stroke on his cock sends waves of pleasure across his skin and only winds him tighter, the bone-deep ache to come overwhelming his senses, flooding his mind. Each inhale brings another lungful of that familiar scent, casting Eggsy's mind even further into the spell-like whirl of his imagination. Professor Hart's hands are on his thighs, teasing his arse, plucking at his sensitive nipples. The steam of the room is Professor Hart's breath against the shell of his ear, and after one particular thrust has Eggsy seeing stars, he increases the frantic tempo of his hand on his cock. It's inelegant, at this point, his hand working a brutal pace.

Eggsy grits his teeth, head slumping backwards again and eyes screwed shut. In the end it doesn't take much; in his mind he can hear Professor Hart murmur at him, encouraging him to come, whispering about how good he looks and how good he feels around his cock. He can feel it happening, the uncontrollable hitch in his hips as they rock into his fingers, seeking every ounce of pleasure. His heart flutters in his chest, pounding out a beat that's roaring in his ears, throbbing in time with the pulsing of his cock.

 _Eggsy,_ Professor Hart says, using his name, _fuck,_ and that's it - his muscles clench and seize as they wind tighter one final time before he comes, writhing against the tile. Theres' the tight clamping sensation of his arse clutching at his fingers, and Merlin - feeling it against his fingers only winds him up more, doubles the sensation. His cock pulses twice, three times into the clouded and foamy water, twitching with the aftershocks as Eggsy comes down, dizzy.

He lays there, panting, until he can extract his fingers and wave them lazily through the water to clean them.

His chest feels looser, lighter now that he’s released the tension that’s been building there for so long, but Eggsy knows it won’t last. He sees Professor Hart several times a week; if he wanked every time felt the urge come over him, he’d never leave the Hufflepuff dormitory. Or this bath.

Eggsy wrinkles his nose; he _is_ quite pruned at this point, and the tiled surfaces of the floor and walls of the bath are slick with dew-like droplets from the steam. He lets himself linger in the cooling water only a few minutes longer, until the scented bubbles aren’t as strong to his nose and his heartbeat has returned to its normal pace.

The air is cool against his water-warmed skin when he climbs out of the tub and dries off. The sinking feeling in his gut is growing as the flush of orgasm fades. After all - he can imagine all he wants, but there’s no way that Harry Hart can be his.

 

\---

 

 

Harry goes to the owlry at the end of the week to mail a letter and there’s JB - tucked up against Mr P’s side, nuzzled into the downy barred feathers of his belly and making little noises that are, adorably, somewhere between a coo and a hoot. He’s ridiculously small next to the eagle owl, who looks at Harry as he enters, completely unconcerned that he’s been caught fraternizing.

Harry glares at Mister Pickles, who has the audacity to blink back at him with his huge orange eyes, nonchalant enough as to be not giving a fuck.

“Traitor,” Harry says to him, and turns on his heel.

He clatters down the owlry steps with a frown, letter unsent and clutched in his hand.

Because how the fuck do you disturb that, honestly?

 

 

The worst part about it - disregarding the fact that he’s jealous of his own _owl_ \- is that Harry isn’t sure what he can do about this.

The right thing to do, by all counts, is stop Eggsy before this can go any further. While harmless between the two of them, any overheard flirting or other suggestive conversation could be easily misconstrued, and Harry has no interest in finding out if Merlin's complaints about the Hogwarts Board hold any truth. Out of context it would seem inappropriate, more than it actually is.

Harry sighs, giving up on reading the book in front of him and pinching the bridge of his nose underneath his glasses. It’s the rational, right thing to do. The idea also makes him balk.

He can't help but picture the way Eggsy's smile would fall of his face and how his expression would crumple as Harry explains it, tries to make him understand that the implications are too serious for - whatever has been going on - to continue. But there's also the niggling at the back of his mind, reminding him of what had happened in mid-December. Eggsy had pulled away, then, perhaps sensing, as Harry had, that they were getting too close - and Merlin, how had it gotten that far in the first place? It seemed innocuous enough, offering to help Eggsy with the dance after he had been so helpful in the lessons and willing to assist him day-to-day.

But then he'd held Eggs in his arms, looked down into his wide eyes, felt the heat of him bleeding through the fabric of his uniform shirt and jumper at his lower back. Their hands clasped together had felt like a perfect fit, and even the memory of it makes something stir in his chest, fond and foreign. Harry's brow furrows as he thinks, and he leans back in his office chair until it starts to squeak in complaint.

He's never felt something quite like that, before, when touching someone - another wizard or not. It's almost enough to make him head up to the library, or to pore through his own collection of books for some answers. _Almost_ , because he has a feeling following any Eggsy-inspired rabbit hole is only paving the way with good intentions...

He's spent a long time, in the back of his own mind, admiring Eggsy's form; he doesn't let himself linger, but he can't help but notice. And now, having touched, having held him in his arms -

But it's more than that; time and time again, he's found a new layer to the young man that's as pleasant as it is unexpected. Wanting to learn and attempt high-level magic not out of any kind of greed or malice or pride, but to protect the ones he loves; being able to put his magical knowledge into practice, putting himself between Harry and danger when it's the right - but by far not the wisest - choice.

Giving Harry an obvious once-over and, in that moment, tipping Harry's world on its head.

Because now - now that it's obvious how dangerous this is - Harry's actually considering it. When his attraction to Eggsy had been blessedly easy to put in the back of his mind and written off as some kind of abstract admiration, something one-sided he'd never act on, he'd squashed the thoughts before they could go to their logical conclusions. He's not the type to let himself wallow in daydreams, but that's not the quite the same as knowing and _wanting_.

Sometime in the fall that switch had flipped inside of him, and the strange quiet of the Christmas holiday he spent alone in London only highlighted how much his thoughts have shifted. It's not the first Christmas he'd spent alone - far from it; with little family and even fewer significant others, the holidays is usually a time of blessed quiet and rest amongst the business of work and the rest of the year.

But this year he'd felt the missing presence of someone at his side like the loss of a limb. It was still a nice enough trip home to London, one of his favorite cities in the world, and it was still nice to get away from the bustle of the castle and the occasional tedium of the life of a Professor. There was still something missing, the ghost of a possibility that haunted him wherever he went, reminding him that his hand was cold and empty when it should have been clasped and warm. There was the ever out-of-sight flicker at the corner of his vision of someone in the chair opposite him, by his side at the table or on the sofa, just out of reach in the cool covers of his too-large bed. And that's the thing: it's never felt too large before.

Something in him _has_ changed. He wants the presence of another person in these parts of his life, in the mundane everyday ins and outs of living. The companionable silence of sitting with each other and reading beside the fire, idle chat that's not small talk but genuinely asking after another's day - afternoon and afternoon, month by month, Eggsy has wormed himself into these spaces, has carved them for himself inside Harry's heart, and now he can't help but want it. He can't help but want _them_ , and can't think of anyone else that would fit in those hollow spaces besides Eggsy Unwin.

So as much as he knows, reasonably, that he needs to make this stop - especially as the adult, the responsible party, the _Professor_ \- he's reluctant to do anything that will break what is between them. It seems strangely fragile, for all the time they've put into learning each other, spending time together, but it's still a risk he doesn't want to take. He likes Eggsy, wants Eggsy to like him, doesn't want to disrupt the comfortable place they've found with each other for all that they're undeniably edging towards a precipice.

Harry doesn't want to have to be the one to break their connection, to close the door on what _could_ be without ever finding out. At the same time, there's know way he can ever know - no way to make this all right, to keep what they have without risking too much. It's a tight-rope walk, a balance between how far he can let Eggsy and his mouth go before it's really a problem - and how long he's willing to risk it.

 

 

The day after Valentine's day is a Sunday, and Professor Ashwicke lays his hand over Professor Lance's at breakfast, smiling at him with equal parts wry amusement and adoration, and Harry sighs. He hadn't ended up changing his bets with Merlin, as Eggsy had advised. As much as he's happy for the two of them - and relieved, for everyone's stress levels, that they've stopped dancing around each other - he can't help but be a little jealous.

The two of them had a lot to work through to be together, but it's nothing compared to what Harry and Eggsy are up against.

 _Harry and Eggsy_ , Harry thinks with a sinking feeling in his gut. The two of them, _together_ \- already his mind is so willing to pair them together, like it's a sure thing. Like it's something he's sure he wants, that could realistically happen.

He has a feeling that the more he tosses the idea around in his mind, the more and more he's growing to like it. And that is, honestly, the most dangerous part in and of itself.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more Kingsman and Hartwin-variety writing and art, join me in Hartwin trash hell and follow me on [tumblr!](http://venvephe.tumblr.com/)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [the things we steal (it was only a kiss)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4080421) by [DivineProjectZero](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DivineProjectZero/pseuds/DivineProjectZero)




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